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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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http://www.archive.org/details/conquestofromela0Oseraiala 








THE LITERATURE OF ITALY 


consists of sixteen volumes, of which 
this one forms a part. For full partic- 
ulars of the edition see the Official 
Certificate bound in the volume entitied 


“A HISTORY OF ITALIAN 
LITERATURE.” 















































RR Edited by Rossiter Johnson and 


Bos Dora Knowlton Ranous 2 2 @ 
‘205 q With a General Introduction by William 
<a Michael Rossetti o and Special Intro- 
Re ductions by James, Cardinal Gibbons, 
Poa |Charles Eliot Norton, S. G. W. Ben- 


ow 
rae, Ajamin, William S. Walsh, Maurice 


ote | Francis Egan, and others CGoeoaeaa 
» , . < ' - 
we seni New translations, and former render- 


bieig ings compared and revised 2 2 oo 
Sor 4 Translators: James C. Brogan, Lord Charle- 
= A mont, Geoffrey Chaucer, Hartley Coleridge, 
bo Florence Kendrick Cooper, Lady Dacre, 
Theodore Dwight, Edward Fairfax, Ugo If 
Foscolo, G. A. Greene, Sir Thomas Hoby, 
William Dean Howells, Luigi Monti, Evan- 
geline M. O’Connor, Thomas Okey, Dora 
Knowlton Ranous, Thomas Roscoe, William 
Stewart Rose, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Wil- 
liam Michael Rossetti, John Addington - 
Symonds, William S. Walsh, William oe 
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THE CONQUEST OF ROME 


(LA CONQUISTA DI ROMA) 


BY 


MATILOF SERAO 
“It 19°? SBE SAID, BOLDINE. 4 LARGE BUNCH OF 


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From an Original p Meier by Arthur Crisp 


THE NATIONAL ALUMNI 


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THE CONQUEST OF ROME 


(LA CONQUISTA DI ROMA) 


BY 


MATILDE SERAO 


TRANSLATED BY DORA KNOWLTON RANOUS 


THE NATIONAL ALUMNI 


COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY 


THE NATIONAL ALUMNI 


FO 
494 
S4ECTF 


CONTENTS 


ARE Ge IN Sg esa ie a eo ee GS ce 


CHAPTER I—One Road to Rome ....... 
CHAPTER II—The Goal of Ambition ...... 
CHAPTER III—For King and Country ...... 
CHAPTER IV—Mysteries of Rome ...... 
CHAPTER V—A Roman Christmas ...... 
CHAPTER VI—Sangiorgio Begins the Conflict . 
CHAPTER VII—The Knight Meets a Siren .. . 
CHAPTER VIII—The Adventure of the Masked Ball 
CHAPTER IX—A Lady and a Challenge 

CHAPTER X—Another Step toward Conquest 
CHAPTER XI—An Essay in Diplomacy . 
CHAPTER XII—The Only Woman ....... 
CHAPTER XIII—Angelica Discusses Politics 
CHAPTER XIV—The Quirinal Ball . 

CHAPTER XV—The Roman Carnival .. 
CHAPTER XVI—A Flower on the Current 
CHAPTER XVII—Love’s Sanctuary ...... 
CHAPTER XVIII—“The Pangs of Despised Love” . 
CHAPTER XIX—Rome, the Conqueror ..... 


An Innocent Barabbas .......- eS dowel te 
By permission of Short Stories Company. 


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ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 
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her breast—(Page 128) ...... . . Frontispiece 


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INTRODUCTION 


ATILDE SERAO, one of the most popular 
novelists of the Italy of to-day, was born in 
Patras, Greece, March 7, 1856. Her mother 
was descended from an ancient Greek family 
of royal blood, and her father was an exile from Naples, 
to which place he returned with his family when his 
daughter was about twelve years old. The mother su- 
perintended the education of the young girl, who early 
showed a disposition to view life through the lenses of 
romantic imagination. At the age of seventeen she pub- 
lished a story entitled Opalo (“Opal”), which attracted 
considerable attention, and the editor of J] Piccolo invited 
her to join his staff of newspaper reporters. She ac- 
cepted the offer, and it is said that, in her zeal to ac- 
complish the same kind of work as that done by the 
male reporters, she cut her hair short and assumed man’s 
attire. This work did not last long, however, and soon 
she was writing vivid and sympathetic short stories of 
Neapolitan life, portraying the joys, sorrows, passions, 
and superstitions of the volatile people of that city with 
bold strokes that presented in a few pages little mas- 
terpieces of description. Her first long novel was called 
A Fickle Heart, and later she wrote a story of the 
morbid emotional life of an invalid, entitled Fantasia. 
Matilde Serao married Eduardo Scarfoglio, and es- 


tablished with him in Rome a journal called La Corriere 
ix 


x INTRODUCTION 


di Roma; later the place of this publication was changed 
to Naples and it was called La Corriere di Napoli. They 
published also another journal, known as I] Mattino. 
Matilde Serao’s best known novels are Riccardo Joanna, 
a story of journalistic life; // Paese di Cuccagna (“The 
Land of Cockaigne”) ; La Ballerina (“The Ballet-Dancer”) ; 
Suor Giovanna della Croce (“Sister Joanna of the Cross,” 
a Sicilian story); and La Conquista di Roma (“The Con- 
quest of Rome”). In the last mentioned work are 
found all this many-sided writer’s literary gifts: a 
sculpturesque distinction in the drawing of character, 
human sympathy, startling realism, producing a picture 
of high life and political intrigue in Roman society of 
to-day, which enables the reader to see that world with 
the same completeness of vision with which the author 


sees it herself. 
DK. R. 


CHAPTER I 


ONE ROAD TO ROME 


HE train stopped. 

“Capua! Capua!” rang a cry through the 

darkness. 

A group of officers strolled along the plat- 
form, jesting and laughing, having come there to seek 
amusement in seeing the night train from Naples pass 
on its way to Rome. The guard talked in low tones to 
the station-master, who gave him a commission for Cai- 
anello, while a mail-carrier handed up a pouch full of 
letters to the clerk in the mail-coach. 

The officers chatted gayly among themselves, with a 
great jingling of spurs, and looked with interest at the 
travelers coming and going, trying to discern among 
them a pretty woman, or some familiar face. But the 
doors of most of the coaches were shut, and the light 
from the lamps within was barely visible through the 
closed windows. Here and there an open door revealed 
glimpses of sleeping travelers wrapped in heavy coats, 
rugs, or shawls. 

“Everyone is asleep,” said one of the officers; “let us 
go home and to bed.” 

“Here are a bride and groom, I’ll wager,” said another, 
seeing the word Reserved over a door. And, as the 


shades were not drawn down, the young man, full of 
1 


2 MATILDE SERAO 


curiosity, sprang upon the step and glanced in at the 
window. But he jumped down again immediately, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

“Only a man—alone! he said. “Probably some dep- 
uty. He is asleep too.” 

But the man “alone” was not sleeping. He lay at full 
length on the cushions; his eyes were closed; one arm 
supported his neck, and the other hand was thrust 
within his coat. But his face had not the peaceful ex- 
pression of repose, as the features were contracted in 
thought. 

After the train had begun to move again, and had 
passed out into the open country, the traveler opened 
his eyes and changed his position. Occasionally a 
thatched cottage, a little village, or a switch-tender’s 
little hut flashed out against a dark background; while 
a path of fire was projected into the darkness, coming 
from the headlight of the locomotive, which appeared to 
throw a circle of dancing flames before it as it rushed 
along at full speed. 

The cold prevented the solitary traveler from sleeping. 
He was accustomed to the mild nights of the South, 
and had set out upon his journey with only a light top- 
coat, his sole luggage being a small bag and a modest 
trunk. But neither clothes, linen, nor books were of 
importance to him; nothing was important but that little 
gold medal—a precious fetich!—attached to his watch- 
chain. It had been obtained for him through special 
favor, by the questor of the Chamber, and from the day 
that it had become his own, his fingers were continually 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 3 


touching it with almost mechanical caresses. Some- 
times he clutched it so hard that it left an abrasion on 
the skin. In order to have this compartment reserved 
for him, he had shown the medal to the station-master, 
lowering his eyes and compressing his lips to hide a 
look of triumph and a smile of satisfaction. He had 
held it in his hand since the beginning of the journey, as 
if he feared to lose it, and it was warm from the contact 
with his feverish palm. The sensation of pleasure he 
derived from that contact was strangely acute; he fin- 
gered delicately the carving of the metal, and felt be- 
neath his touch the idolized inscription: X/Ve Legislatura. 
On the reverse were his surname and his Christian 
name: Francesco Sangiorgio. 

His hands burned feverishly, but he shivered with 
cold. He rose and looked out of the door. The train 
was still running through open country. The wheels 
rolled smoothly along the rails, without disturbing the 
travelers’ sleep. The great moving caravansary filled 
with sleepers sped through the night as if driven by an 
implacable, ardent will, carrying with it other wills, pas- 
sive in repose. 

“Let us try to sleep,” thought the Honorable San- 
giorgio. 

Lying down once more, he attempted to do so. But 
the name of Sparanise, called two or three times at a 
station, reminded him of the little hamlet in the Basi- 
licata whence he had come, which place, together with 
twenty other humble villages, had elected him deputy. 
This little hamlet, a few hours’ distance from a small 


+ MATILDE SERAO 


station on the Eboli-Reggio line, now seemed very re- 
mote to the Honorable Sangiorgio—far away in a marshy 
valley, where a noxious fog now rose from the streams 
whose dry beds in summer show only yellow stones. 

On his way to the station from that lonely spot in the 
Basilicata, he had passed near the cemetery, a large, 
square tract of land, where black crosses were scattered 
among the tall pine-trees. Under one of these lay his 
former opponent, the patriotic old deputy who had been 
reélected year after year, but whom he had fought with 
the audacity of youth, ignoring all obstacles. He never 
would have defeated him had not Death, a powerful 
ally, given him an easy victory. He had triumphed 
while rendering homage to the civic virtues of the de- 
parted patriot; but when passing the cemetery he felt 
no pity for the tired old warrior who had descended 
to the sublime serenity of the tomb. All this was for- 
gotten in the face of his unlooked-for success, as well as 
the ten years of his life as a country lawyer, dealing 
with the petty affairs of provincial courts—litigation 
over an inheritance of three hundred lire or a blow with 
a bill-hook; ten years passed amid sordid and paltry af- 
fairs, on the alert against the lies and tricks of rascally 
peasants and clients that tried to cheat him, while he 
looked upon them all as his unarmed enemies. 

Among such surroundings the young man had felt hu- 
miliated and discouraged. He defended only half-heart- 
edly his petty cases before judges who listened to him 
with evident ennui; and at last he fell into the habit of 
hastening through his defence in a few brief and indiffer- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 5 


ent words, so that he was considered a very poor ad- 
vocate. ; 

He had gone from his father’s home without regret, 
although he left behind both parents, who had wept at 
his departure with the pathetic selfishness of age. This 
hardness of heart was the result of long-suppressed anger 
and revolt. Now he recalled these past years distinctly, 
but without emotion, like a disinterested spectator, as 
he lay stretched upon the cushions of his coach. He 
closed his eyes, but could not sleep. 

In the other coaches, however, the travelers appeared 
to be plunged in profound sleep. 

At Mont-Cassin, where they stopped five minutes at 
one o’clock in the morning, no one left the train. The 
waiter in the restaurant snored under a smoky lamp, 
with his head upon his folded arms resting on the marble 
table. The trainmen, wrapped in black capes, with 
hoods pulled low over their eyes and carrying lanterns 
in their hands, passed alongside the train, testing the 
wheels, which resounded to the blows with a tone as 
clear as that of a crystal bell. The hissing of the loco- 
motive seemed less strident, as if it lowered its sharp 
tone in deference to the sleeping travelers. 

Leaving this station, the train moved more slowly, 
without jolts or jars, gliding along with a monotonous 
rumble, like the snoring of a giant. Francesco San- 
giorgio thought of all the unknown persons that were 
his fellow-travelers: some saddened by their recent de- 
parture, others glad to be approaching a new place; 
men, loving or indifferent, or preoccupied with business; 


6 MATILDE SERAO 


some enfeebled by age and illness, others in the fullness 
of youth and vivacity; many who were hastening toward 
a tragedy, others toward perfect happiness—men and 
women, gay, sad, poor, rich, unhappy. Yet all, one after 
another, had yielded to sleep within half an hour. Sleep 
had calmed their ardor, soothed their sadness, quiéted 
their desires. Irritated nerves, anger, scorn, melancholy, 
suffering, jealousy, hatred or love—all human weak- 
nesses and passions were submerged in the forgetfulness 
of sleep. 

“But why am I still awake?” thought Sangiorgio. 

He arose and stood erect under the flickering light of 
the little lamp, and peered through the misty window 
at the flying landscape. He felt a keen sense of lone- 
liness, as if he were abandoned and lost in a vast un- 
known world. He regretted having demanded a re- 
served compartment, and yearned for human companion- 
ship. He felt as dismayed as a child, shut up in that 
prison from which he could not escape. An unreason- 
ing terror seized upon him, and he fell back upon the 
seat for a moment, when a new thought distracted him 
from his nervous fear. 

“Rome! Yes, it is Rome!” he murmured. 

It was Rome, indeed. The four letters forming that 
word now rang in the ears of his imagination—round, 
clear, and resonant as the bugles of a marching army— 
with the persistency of a fixed idea. The name was 
short and sweet, like one of those adorable names of 
women that in themselves possess a secret charm, and 
it had for him an almost magic seduction. He could 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 7 


not figure to himself that it was merely the name of a 
city—an agglomeration of people and of houses. Rome 
was to him the great unknown. Having always lacked 
both the time and the money necessary to make the 
journey, he never had been able to visit the great city 
and had formed only an abstract idea of it—thinking of 
it as of something vast and fluctuating—as a great 
thought, an ideal apparition, an immense face with in- 
distinct contour. Thus his idea of Rome was grand, but 
undecided and indefinite—strange comparisons, fictions, 
singular visions, fanciful conceits crowded one another 
in his dreamy imagination. Under the mask of indiffer- 
ence habitually worn by this pensive son of the South, 
was concealed a fiery imagination long accustomed to 
solitary musing. And the idea of Rome added fresh fuel 
to his burning thoughts. 

Ah, how he loved Rome! He thought of it as a colos- 
sal human shadow extending maternal arms to clasp him 
in a mighty embrace, whence he should emerge, strength- 
ened and rejuvenated. He fancied he could hear echoing 
through the night the irresistible sweetness of a woman’s 
voice calling his name, and a voluptuous thrill stirred 
his whole being. Rome awaited him, as a mother waits 
for her son returning to her after a long absence. 

For a long time he had been consumed with im- 
patience to fly to Rome, but had been restrained by 
moral and material obstacles. He could not free him- 
self, and suffered mental torment that rendered his face 
pale and his eyes dim. How many times, from the ter- 
race of his little house, had he gazed across the hills, 


8 MATILDE SERAO 


thinking that there—far away over there!—under the 
blue arch of the horizon, Rome was calling to him! 
Sadly he thought of the distance that separated him 
from the city of his love, and bitterly he hated every- 
thing that prevented him from answering her call. 

Those ten years full of sordid and maddening struggle 
had changed him: his mind was filled with suspicion 
of all men and exaggerated self-esteem; he dissimulated 
his real sentiments and felt unbounded scorn for every 
human desire except ambition. He believed himself in- 
vincible, but sometimes, in dark hours of defeat, he felt 
himself overwhelmed with a sense of weakness. Then 
his pride was overcome by humiliation, and he regarded 
himself as only a poor weak creature, unworthy of 
Rome, the well beloved! Ah, he must curb himself, he 
must be patient, prove his strength through adversity 
and purify his soul, in order to be worthy of her! Sa- 
cred as a priestess, a mother, or a lover, Rome de- 
manded expiations and sacrifices; she must have a pure 
heart and a will of iron. 

“Ceprano! Ceprano! Fifteen minutes wait!” cried the 
guard. 

The Honorable Sangiorgio gazed around, bewildered; 
he had been in a fevered dream. 

First a ray of pale green showed at the horizon; then 
a livid light, which mounted slowly in the dark sky. In 
the coldness of the waning night, the vast Roman Cam- 
pagna opened to the view. Sangiorgio regarded it cu- 
riously. It appeared a wide plain, indistinct in color, 
with irregularities like the undulations of a petrified sea. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 9 


In the dim light of dawn it looked like an enormous 
desert, with its monotony broken here and there by a 
bush, a shrub, or a hedge. 

The stations became more frequent, wet and shining 
with the dew, their windows closed behind rusty green 
_ blinds. The water dripped from the laurel bushes, and 
at each station was a large clock with a white face, 
which, with its long black hands, looked like an enor- 
mous two-legged spider. The station-master, muffled in 
his cloak, with head bent low, tramped to and fro among 
the employés. In the fresh morning air an acrid, pene- 
trating odor of damp earth mounted to the brain. A 
large town, built on a hill, surrounded by battlements 
and flanked by two towers, rose gray and ancient, a 
relic of the Middle Ages. This was Velletri. 

The train went more slowly; voices were heard from 
the next coach; at a window appeared the dark, close- 
shaven face of a Spanish priest, who was smoking a 
cigar. Now the broad daylight illuminated the whole 
sky, showing the nakedness of the country in all its 
grandeur. A short, sparse, marshy grass covered the 
plain now bathed in the clear light of morning; here and 
there were large yellowish-brown spots of dry and arid 
land. It was indeed a desert, vast, complete, without 
a tree or the shadow of a human being, or even the 
flight of a bird; it was desolation itselfi—immense, sol- 
emn, superb. 

In contemplating this country, which was unlike any 
other, Francesco Sangiorgio felt a profound astonish- 
ment, in which were swept away all his former imagin- 


10 MATILDE SERAO 


ings. He remained curled up in his corner, mute and 
motionless, trembling with cold and excitement. At last 
a weight seemed to descend upon his eyelids, his limbs 
relaxed, and he realized that his sleepless night had left 
him greatly fatigued. He would have liked to lie down 
again at full length upon the cushion, and have a nap 
in the sunshine, and envied those passengers that had 
been able to sleep during the night journey. 

By this time the hours seemed interminable, and the 
sight of the desolate country oppressed him. He was 
longing for sleep; his mouth was dry and bitter, as if 
he were recovering from illness; his impatience increased 
to such a degree that he actually suffered. The local 
passenger trains were too slow—why had he not taken © 
an express? The rapidly approaching realization of his 
dreams gave him a throb of joy, yet the consciousness 
that he was so near Rome filled him with a vague, inex- 
plicable fear. He strove in vain to be calm, to laugh at 
his own perturbation, but the last twenty minutes were 
almost insupportable. 

With his head out of the window, the smoke from the 
engine blowing in his face, and without noticing the 
fine aqueducts that traversed the plain, he gazed ahead 
toward the longed-for goal, thinking each instant that he 
could see the beloved city. The Campagna seemed to fly 
past him into the background, carrying with it the wet 
fields, the yellow aqueducts, and the little white huts of 
the switch-tenders. The locomotive seemed to augment 
its speed, and from time to time emitted a prolonged and 
piercing whistle. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 11 


Where were they? Nothing could be seen. When at 
last the movement of the train began to slacken, San- 
giorgio’s excitement was so overpowering that he sank 
back upon the cushions, unnerved for the moment. He 
stepped down from his compartment, with trembling 
limbs and throbbing heart. — 

The crowd surrounded him, pushed and jostled him, 
without paying him any attention. Two trains had just 
arrived, one from Florence, the other from Naples, and 
the travelers filled the station platform with noise and 
bustle. 

The Honorable Sangiorgio stood bewildered in the 
midst of this hubbub; he leaned against a wall, his hand- 
bag at his feet, and gazed at the throng as if he sought 
a familiar face. 

The station was damp and dark, and was filled with 
boxes, trunks, and packages. The travelers hurried along 
with tired, bored, and sleepy faces, yawning frankly; the 
prevailing expression was of absolute, invincible indif- 
ference to all things. 

These people, as well as the employés and the express- 
men, went and came without noticing Sangiorgio, who, 
with a childish impulse, had unbuttoned his topcoat with 
the sole idea of displaying his medal. Twice he had 
called a porter, who had disappeared without listening to 
him. 

A group of railway employés had gathered around sev- 
eral gentlemen, of bureaucratic appearance, in black 
coats and white cravats, with their coat-collars turned 
up to hide the pallor resulting from broken sleep. They 


12 MATILDE SERAO 


lifted their hats with great respect as a slender and ele- 
gant woman alighted from the train from Florence, fol- 
lowed by a tall and thin old gentleman. 

The group approached them with much solemnity, as 
if to join in some high social ceremony; one of the gen- 
tlemen offered a cluster of rare flowers to the young 
lady, and all bowed low to her elderly companion. 
Within the now half-opened topcoats could be seen a 
dazzling array of snowy shirt-fronts, several gold medals 
shone from their owners’ watch-chains, and animated 
smiles were on every face. 

“His Excellency the Minister!” murmured some one 
in the throng. 

Then the group broke up, the lady moved away, lean- . 
ing on the arm of the thin old man, followed by the 
deputies and the other functionaries. The Honorable 
Sangiorgio walked behind them mechanically. 

When the official party reached the Fiazza Margher- 
ita, they all got into carriages, the lady putting her hand 
out of the window and smiling once more upon her 
gallant escorts. Sangiorgio remained alone in the 
square. The pavement was wet, as if from recent rain. 

All the windows of the Albergo Continentale were 
closed. At the left, the Corso Margherita was still in 
the process of building, covered with beams, stones, and 
rubbish. The omnibuses from the hotels set off, but 
several fiacres remained standing, through the indolence 
of their drivers, who smoked and awaited a “fare.” 

At the right was a closed variety theater, and on a 
high stone wall was a flaring poster of the Popolo Romano. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 13 


Over all hung a thick, heavy and penetrating mist, per- 
meated by some unpleasant odor. The city, in the damp 
dreariness of an autumn morning, seemed to give forth 
a disagreeable emanation, like the feverish breath of a 
sick person. 

The Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio was very pale, 
and felt a chill—in his heart! 


CHAPTER II 


THE GOAL OF AMBITION 


4a E had told himself that on that day he must re- 
4 sist the temptation to go to the Parliament 
House. The rain had ceased; a slight vapor 
still hung in the air; the streets were muddy, 
and the sky remained overcast. 

From a window of the Albergo di Milano the Honor- 
able Sangiorgio contemplated the Parliament House, 
painted a pale yellow, and tried to strengthen himself in — 
his resolution not to visit it that day. During the first 
week after his arrival he had passed all his time there— 
mornings, afternoons, and evenings. In the early morn- 
ing his first glance, on awaking, was directed toward the 
great structure. He dressed mechanically, his eyes still 
fixed upon it, while he planned to see more of the city, 
to seek a permanent lodging, as this hotel life could not 
last. But when he set out from the hotel, opening his 
umbrella, he felt a sudden seizure of indolence; the slop- 
ing street leading to the Piazza Colonna looked slippery 
and dangerous; he shrugged his shoulders and made 
straight for Montecitorio. He would remain there until 
it was time to return to his hotel for breakfast, in a din- 


ing-room on the ground floor, where his favorite seat 
was one that faced the great plate-glass doors. Seated 


here, he would order veal, cooked in the Roman style, 
14 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 15 


and while eating he could scrutinize everyone that en- 
tered or left the palace. 

He ate rapidly, with the absent-minded air of one not 
keenly alive to the pleasures of the table. His eyes 
were continually fixed upon the entrance of the palace; 
sometimes he fancied he recognized Sella, with his stout 
person, somewhat square and wooden in outline, as if he 
had been carved with a hatchet, and his black beard just 
touched with gray. 

Again, he imagined he saw Crispi, with his heavy 
white moustache and his ruddy face, looking like a 
military bourgeois. Sangiorgio finished his meal in haste, 
burning with impatience to obtain a close view of these 
great statesmen, these leaders among men—and again 
he hurried to Montecitorio. But there a profound dis- 
illusion awaited him. 

He sought in vain for Sella and Crispi; the Chamber 
looked cold and blank under the white light from the 
dome; the benches were covered with white linen, and 
the floor with a gray carpet bordered with blue. He 
mounted abstractedly the five steps leading to the chair 
of the presiding officer, and paused there for a moment, 
looking at the rows of benches, which grew wider as 
they rose toward the galleries. 

He felt a boyish impulse to push the buttons of all the 
electric bells, and in order not to yield to it, he imme- 
diately left the Chamber by another doorway, carrying 
with him a melancholy impression of that great empty 
cone-like space, bathed in pale yellow light. 

He did not find Sella and Crispi anywhere, either in 


16 MATILDE SERAO 


the dark circular gallery, which looks like the portico 
of a crypt, or in the other corridor, long and narrow, 
where the deputies store away their reports and bills 
under lock and key. Neither did he find them in the 
buffet, the hall called the Lost Footsteps, nor in the 
offices: all was silence and solitude, except for a group of 
ushers in uniform, without medals, who strolled about 
with the bored air of idlers. 

Occasionally Sangiorgio met the questor of the Cham- 
ber, who had come to take the place of the other questor, 
a nobleman who had gone to pass the month of Oc- 
tober in his villa on Lago Maggiore; this questor, a 
baron of the Abruzzi, was a very great lord, and, with 
his courteous and polished manners, he observed every- 
thing closely, like a man of honor faithful to his trust. 
Whenever he encountered Sangiorgio he gave him a 
slight but courteous salutation, and passed on. This 
reserved politeness intimidated the young deputy, who 
blushed at each encounter as if he had committed some 
error. 

At last he took refuge in the reading-room, near the 
oval table, where lay scattered the daily journals. In 
this apartment he always found two deputies: one a 
socialist from Romagna, with a chestnut beard and 
flashing eyes behind a pair of spectacles, who wrote at 
a small table, dashing off letters, proclamations, and 
pamphlets; the other was an old statesman, with rosy 
face and white beard, who slept tranquilly in an arm- 
chair, with his feet on another chair, his hands in his 
pockets, and a newspaper spread over him. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 17 


The socialist raised his head and examined Sangior- 
gio, perhaps trying to ascertain whether this newcomer 
had within him the stuff whereof disciples are made; but 
the cold glance, the obstinate brow beneath the bushy 
black hair, the whole energetic physiognomy of the 
young man indicated a character already formed, and 
little likely to be swayed by any man’s influence. La- 
mena, the socialist, bent again over his writing. 

Sangiorgio paused only for a moment in the reading- 
room on his way to the library on the third floor. Here 
several clerks were seated at high wooden desks, en- 
gaged in compiling a general catalogue, and working in 
perfect silence. : 

A bald-headed, red-nosed deputy stood before a desk, 
turning over and over the leaves of a catalogue, as if he 
were searching for an undiscoverable work. He was 
very short, and stood on a footstool in order to reach 
the desk, and with his nearsighted eyes he tried to read 
with his nose so close to the book that it looked as if 
he were about to flatten that organ upon the page like 
a seal. 

No one else was to be found in the adjoining rooms, 
which were filled with books, and tables covered with 
pens, paper, inkstands and pencils for the use of literary 
workers. 

In one corner, before a half-empty shelf, the librarian 
rummaged furiously among some books. He had a pas- 
sion for this library, which he had created and had 
kept in order. He did not turn his head on hearing 


Sangiorgio’s footsteps, or if he did it was only to throw 
2 


18 MATILDE SERAO 


him a rapid glance from his piercing eyes, overshadowed 
by heavy black brows—a glance still absorbed by his 
literary researches. 

Francesco Sangiorgio, again embarrassed by that sur- 
prised scrutiny, retreated to the farthest room, selected a 
book at random and began to read. 

Like a lover who cannot make up his mind to leave 
his inamorata, and seeks a thousand pretexts to remain 
beside her, so Sangiorgio again found himself strolling 
through the corridors, pausing to look at the maps hang- 
ing on the walls; he looked again in the Chamber, at the 
allotment of seats; he glanced over the journals in the 
reading-room, or turned the leaves of some book in the 
library. 

With the natural rusticity of his mind, and his pro- 
vincial timidity, he feared lest the questor, the librarian, 
the ushers, and the occasional deputies, might regard 
him as he really was: a provincial, a novice, dazzled by 
his first political success, who trembled with joy at find- 
ing himself in the parliamentary armchairs, and who 
could not tear himself away from the fascination of the 
place. Again, like a lover, he imagined that everyone 
could read in his face the secret of his passion. 

But that day he had resolved that he would not set 
foot in Montecitorio; he would not even think of the par- 
liamentary world. He temporized, lingering near the 
window, and finally resolved to see something of Rome 
after he had had his breakfast. 

He had been awakened early by an unusual commotion 
in the next room. A loud, sonorous, virile voice, with a 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 19 


strong Neapolitan accent, was audible at sunrise, talking, 
laughing, singing, its owner apparently receiving visitors 
—friends, acquaintances, and petitioners who made re- 
quests, recommended themselves, and set forth their 
claims in Neapolitan patois, with a persistency to which 
the Honorable Bulgaro, Deputy for Chiaia, the second 
Naples district, opposed energetic reprisals. Everything 
could be heard through the thin partition, and Sangior- 
gio listened involuntarily. 

—No, he could not, no! said the Honorable Bulgaro. 
—He was not the Eternal Father, to dispense favors to 
everybody. Let everyone go away and leave him in 
peace! And he strode to and fro with the heavy tread 
of a large man, grown indolent in a bourgeois life, after 
losing the elasticity of a handsome and vigorous young 
officer, once a breaker of -tender hearts. 

But his petitioners insisted, supplicated, explained 
their troubles, told their stories over and over until the 
Honorable Bulgaro, with the easy Neapolitan good 
nature, finished the interview by yielding, saying: 

“Very well! Very well! We will see whether we can- 
not do something.” 

His visitors departed as satisfied as if they had 
already attained the object of their desires, and the great 
man remained alone for a moment, puffing, panting, and 
swearing: 

“Good Lord! What a racket! What an infernal 
din!” 

The Honorable Sangiorgio felt ashamed at having 
listened so long, and he went down to breakfast in a 


20 MATILDE SERAO 


very pensive mood. He armed himself with courage 
to resist the seductions of the Chamber; many deputies 
must have arrived by this time, since it was barely three 
weeks before the opening of the Fourteenth Legislature. 
He was conscious of a weakening of his resolve, but at 
that moment a carriage rolling slowly over the wet pave- 
ment obstructed for an instant his view of the grand 
entrance to the palace. He ran out, stopped the carriage 
with a resolute gesture, and jumped in. 

“Where to, Signor?” asked the coachman of this ab- 
sent-minded patron, who had given him no address. 

“To—Saint Peter’s—yes, Saint Peter’s,” Sangiorgio 
replied. 

The driver took a long time, because the streets lead- _ 
ing to St. Peter’s were thronged with pedestrians and 
vehicles; besides, they were narrow and winding, lined 
with dark and dirty little shops of second-hand dealers 
in iron and papers, and broken by numerous blind al- 
leys. At the Castle St. Angelo there was an open space 
where one could breathe, but along the banks of the tur- 
bid and almost stagnant Tiber was a succession of little 
brown huts, buildings pierced by innumerable small 
windows, showing damp, unwholesome-looking stains, 
the mildewed foundations of which were revealed by the 
low water. The stream at this point was very repellent. 

In the Via Borgo the influence of the religious atmos- 
phere was discernible, among the somber palaces, the 
shops for the sale of sacred objects—statuettes, images, 
rosaries, crucifixes—which bore the pompous sign: Ob- 
jects of Art. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 21 


In the great square, now silent and deserted, played 
two fountains, tossing their plume-like white spray; and 
the obelisk stood up tall and straight'like a giant’s staff. 
The carriage passed these and drew up before the grand 
stairway. 

“Do you wish to go into the church?” asked the 
coachman. 

“Yes,” the deputy replied, shaking himself out of his 
absent-mindedness. 

When he reached the peristyle, he turned and surveyed 
the square. He had read that at that distance a man 
looked no larger than an ant; but no one was in sight, 
and the vast, empty, watery square appeared to Sangior- 
gio as dreary as the Roman Campagna. 

Within the church, he experienced no mystic impres- 
sions; he was indifferent to the subject of religion, 
never spoke of it, discussed the Pope only as a factor 
in politics, and left religious faith and ceremonies to the 
women. He was only slightly impressed with the archi- 
tecture of Saint Peter’s. 

A group of Germans moved about the great church, 
regarding with disapproval so much Christian pomp. 
Not a chair, not a bench, not a priest nor a sacristan 
could be seen. Silent and deserted were the brown 
confessionals, on which, in gold letters, were the words: 
Pro Iuspanica lingua, Pro gallica lingua, Pro germanica 
lingua. If one wished to kneel, he must do so upon the 
steps of the pulpit, upon those of the main altar, or upon 
the cold pavement. 

Francesco Sangiorgio knew nothing about the tombs 


22 MATILDE SERAO 


of the Popes, and his ideas of art were exceedingly 
vague. The monument by Canova, with its sleeping 
lions, did not impress him; that by Jean de la Rovére, of 
bronze, he pronounced admirable; but before the monu- 
ment by Bernini, with its skeleton of gold, its white 
marble pope and red marble draperies, he felt only a 
sensation of profound astonishment. 

He strolled about here and there, his mind dwell- 
ing on outside matters, not in the least interested in 
that stupendous mass of stone, freezing and lonely, 
where nothing moved except shadows. Presently he 
left the church. 

“To the Coliseum!” he said resolutely to the coach- 
man. 

This worthy, in order to prolong the drive, passed 
through the ancient quarters inhabited by the true 
Roman population, reluctant to abandon their old streets 
and wretched dwellings swarming with vermin. 

Sangiorgio affected to admire the Forum Trajani, that 
extensive space below the level of the ground, with 
its forest of broken columns, which furnish a sort of 
cemetery for dead cats, and a rendezvous for various 
kinds of animals, to which the servants of the neighbor- 
hood generously bring the remains of their dinners. He 
did not see the roughened facade of the Capitol, nor the 
Arch of Septimius Severus, the Temple of Peace, nor the 
great Roman Forum, because of the demolition that was 
going on there. 

The coachman took a short cut and stopped before the 
Coliseum. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 23 


The deputy felt that he ought to get out of the car- 
riage, so he descended, and passed under a high arch, 
feeling his shoes sink into the muddy ground. 

A stagnant pool, bordered by grass, was near the arch, 
and the rain had left smaller pools among the stones 
scattered here and there, in the time-worn hollows of 
the steps, and even in the hand of a broken statue. 

Francesco, astonished at the immensity of these walls, 
sought to get his bearings: where, then, was the im- 
perial box, the gallery of the vestals, and the gallery of 
the priests? He walked slowly along to the middle of 
the amphitheater, and looked around. 

Yes, certainly, the Coliseum was majestic, but the 
dull light hid part of its grandeur and showed only the 
decay of antiquity. At a distance the country looked 
green, with a damp and marshy verdure, and no song of 
bird, cry of animal, or voice of man could be heard. 

The visitor walked conscientiously along the circular 
gallery, speculating as to the probable appearance of this 
great ruin by moonlight. By daylight it appeared to him 
only a vast and useless thing, the work of a proud and 
powerful people. 

A gentleman and a lady—she, slender and elegant; he, 
tall and strong—were also promenading in the vast sub- 
terranean corridor; they walked slowly, without looking 
at each other, but with clasped hands and speaking in 
low tones. The lady lowered her eyes on meeting those 
of Sangiorgio, and the man glanced at him with an 
expression of annoyance. 

“TI dreamed of the Coliseum at midnight, under the 


24 MATILDE SERAO 


rays of the moon,” said the deputy to himself. “It ap- 
pears that the old Romans built it only for a rendez- 
vous for modern lovers!” 

He shrugged his shoulders with a secret sneer at the 
idea of love; the disdain of the provincial who has al- 
ways lacked time, opportunity, and inclination to love; 
the scorn of the man wholly absorbed in ambitious 
dreams. 

“Shall we go now to the Church of San Giovanni, 
Signor?” inquired the coachman, obsequiously. 

“Yes, let us go.” 

They drove first to San Giovanni, then to Santa 
Maria Maggiore. Sangiogio did not at all comprehend 
the delicate mysticism of these churches, and he gazed — 
about him abstractedly. 

When he left them, the coachman, without asking for 
instructions, drove under the Arch of Titus and took 
him to the Baths of Caracalla. The deputy stopped 
under the gateway to examine the photographs for sale 
there; then he entered quickly, as if seized with a sud- 
den impatience. 

The walls were very high, and were covered with 
moss and brambles; in the middle of the vast compart- 
ments the earth had become depressed into a hollow, 
which was filled with brackish water. 

At one end of the hall for sports and games was the 
statue of a woman, modestly draped—a Hygeia, without 
doubt. A section of broken wall stood out against the 
sad November sky, like a giant rock towering up in the 
gray twilight. At a distance, on the verdant plain, was a 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 25 


round and delicate temple, which perhaps was dedicated 
to Venus. 

The Honorable Sangiorgio felt ill at ease in that 
colossal edifice; a chill stole over him; he felt small 
and petty in the face of this formidable grandeur, which 
humiliated him and made him suffer. 

“No,” he said resolutely to the coachman, who offered 
to show him the Appian Way, “No, let us go back to the 
city.” 

On the way back he felt himself shivering. Night 
was coming on, and he fancied that he bore upon his 
own shoulders all the dampness and humidity of that 
moist autumn day; his soul seemed saturated with the 
invincible melancholy of these ruins, the emptiness of 
these solitary churches, the insensibility of those great 
stone saints and abandoned altars of precious marbles. 

All these dead things, buried under the dust of centu- 
ries, mattered nothing to him. Who cared for the past? 
He belonged to his own day; he loved the present, he 
loved life, and the struggle for a future. Why stop to 
indulge in vain regrets over the decadence of modern 
times? Was not the present age great also, with its 
wonderful discoveries and advanced civilization? 

The first glimpse of the twinkling gaslight on the 
Piazza Sciarra aroused him from his melancholy. A 
newsboy was crying the Fanfulla and the Bersagliere. 

The sidewalks were thronged with people. Sangiorgio 
felt his spirits revive. A man stood in the middle of a 
group and was announcing that the opening of the 
Legislature was fixed for the twentieth of November. 


26 MATILDE SERAO 


The cafés were brightly lighted, and Sangiorgio 
thought he recognized, through the windows of the 
Colonna Restaurant, the Honorable Zanardelli, whose 
portrait he had seen. He entered and seated himself at 
a small table not far from the deputy from Brescia. 

While eating, he noted the tall frame, the small ob- 
stinate head, nervous gestures, and Southern loquacity 
of this man. In another corner more deputies were din- 
ing, and the waiters hovered over these well-known 
persons, ignoring the lonely and solitary Sangiorgio. 

In this surcharged atmosphere, he resolved to gather 
all his energies for the imminent conflict; and when 
later he returned to his hotel and gazed again upon the 
Montecitorio Palace, his whole being thrilled at the sight 
of that great building wrapped in the shadows of night. 
His heart was there! 


CHAPTER III 


FOR KING AND COUNTRY 


HE glove shop in the Via di Pietra was full of 
activity. The proprietor, a smiling, blond 
Milanese, assisted by two young women, did 
nothing but take down boxes of gloves from 

the shelves and put them back again, in response to the 
demands of fresh customers. These, buttoned up in 
tight-fitting topcoats, under which one divined that they 
wore frock-coats, asked for light gloves. 

One gentleman, elegantly attired, and wearing the 
red ribbon of a commander, called for pale gray gloves. 
A lady from the provinces, dressed in garnet satin and 
a white hood, greatly annoyed several impatient cus- 
tomers who were waiting their turn to be served. She 
wished a snug-fitting glove, of good quality, with the 
buttons well sewed on; but when she heard that the 
price was six lire, she put on a scandalized air, com- 
pressed her lips, and departed without buying anything, 
holding in her hand her card of invitation to the 
Chamber. 

A deputy from the South, with a heavy brown 
moustache, told one of his constituents that he had just 
lost his gloves, and the poor miserable devil of a con- 
stituent listened with a resigned smile, having probably 


no money wherewith to purchase gloves for himself. 
27 


28 MATILDE SERAO 


A lady descended from a carriage and entered the shop. 
She was tall, and her face was heavily “made up,” the 
lips blood-red and the eyebrows almost a blue-black, 
contrasting strangely with her light blond coiffure. 
She was dressed entirely in white, with a heavily plumed 
hat, and carried a parasol of cream lace. She asked for 
eighteen-button black gloves. Heavy bracelets rattled 
on her round, bare wrists. 

A small deputy, short and stout, with a black beard 
and bright eyes, watched her slyly, while complaining to 
his colleague, a handsome blond man, of the malicious 
tricks played upon him by the authorities: for instance, 
he was always chosen to be one of the party to receive 
the King and the Queen at the door of the Legislative 
Chamber—he, a democrat of the Extreme Left, was com- 
pelled to salute and offer his arm to a lady of the Court! 

“T rather like fashionable women myself,” said his col- 
league, with a fatuous smile. 

“Perhaps!” the other replied. 

They left the shop, looking at the dazzling blonde as 
she got into her carriage, and catching a glimpse of a 
pink card tucked into the lace on the front of her bodice: 
a card of admission to a reserved seat in the gallery! 

“The revenge of the proletariat,’ said the republican 
deputy, with a smile. 

By this time there was a throng in the glove shop, 
composed chiefly of government employés, freshly 
shaved, with home-laundered white cravats, light top- 
coats and black trousers; some of these officials sported 
the green ribbon of St. Maurice and St. Lazarus, which 


‘ 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 29 


appeared to impart a still more cadaverous tint to their 
sallow faces. Nearly all wore slightly passé top hats, 
which had been newly blocked and ironed for the great 
day. 

The plump and smiling proprietor seemed never 
weary, never lost her head, and responded to every de- 
mand with unvarying courtesy. She had sold her whole 
stock of white cravats, and when the Honorable Di 
Santamarta arrived—a pale Sicilian, with a Mephisto- 
phelian expression—she was grieved to the heart at not 
being able to supply him with a cravat, as he was one of 
her best customers. She had just sold the last white 
cravat, but Salvi, over there, at the corner of the Piazza 
Sciarra, would surely have some. The Marquis listened 
to her, his blue eyes lighted by an indolent sceptical 
smile. 

“And is the Signora Marchesa in Rome now? Of 
course she will be present at the opening of Parliament?” 

“Yes, I believe so,’ the Honorable Marquis replied. 
“She will be there with her sister. I came out early 
expressly to buy a cravat. What a bore, all this fuss!” 

He moved toward the door with a languid air, as if 
making a superhuman effort. At the threshold he turned: 

“At Salvi’s, did you say?” he inquired with a drawl. 

“At Salvi’s, yes; in the Piazza Sciarra.” 

For a moment the little shop was quiet. The two as- 
sistants leaned wearily against the counter, following 
the example of the proprietor, who rested her arms on 
the shelf among the open boxes and disordered packets 
of gloves. The bustle of the morning had been like that 


30 MATILDE SERAO 


of one of the mad days in carnival time, when the shop 
of the pretty Milanese was filled with a crowd of young 
gallants, milliners, valets, grumbling husbands, and im- 
patient lovers. 

A family of Neapolitans now entered—father, mother, 
and daughter—and asked to see some gloves. They said 
at once that they were going to the opening of Parlia- 
ment; that they had had three tickets given to them; one 
by the Baron Nicotera, another by Philippe Leala—the 
Honorable Leala, the secretary-general who had such 
a lovely black beard!—and the third by an usher at- 
tached to the Montecitorio Palace—a compatriot, this 
usher, a fine fellow at home, and with five medals, if you 
please! It was not easy to get these cards of invitation 
—on the contrary, very difficult, indeed! They knew a 
lady, the aunt of a deputy, who had been unable to get 
one. They were a little worried lest they should not 
all be able to sit together in the same gallery, because 
of the different colors of their cards, but never mind! 
they certainly should not get lost! 

“TI believe you will have to go in through separate en- 
trances,” calmly observed the fair mistress of the shop, 
struggling to fit a glove to the fat red hand of the girl. 
The father looked at his wife in dismay. 

The shop was again filled with fresh customers, all 
eager and impatient; a double row of buyers formed in 
front of the counter, and the air was filled with a pene- 
trating human odor—the subtle feminine aroma that 
intoxicates. 

The brigh. autumn sunlight struck obliquely across 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 31 


the Piazza Colonna. The Antonine Column looked som- 
ber and smoky in the clear white light, and stood out 
like a dark and wrinkled hunchback against the red 
facade of the Piombino Palace. Golden atoms sparkled 
in the air. In all directions the windows were draped 
with tricolored flags; at the Austrian Embassy the flags 
of the two nations were fraternally intertwined, their 
vivid coloring seemed to sound a joyous note in the 
golden atmosphere. 

The yellow pavement, extending along the Corso and 
the Piazza Colonna to the Montecitorio Palace, gave 
forth a metallic reverberation. The terrace of the Cir- 
colo Nazionale was gay with parasols—red, blue, white. 
and all colors. From both sides of the Corso came a 
dazzling multitude, with gold epaulettes glittering on 
masculine shoulders, and light-tinted feathers waving 
on feminine hats. 

By half-past nine the military cordon had blocked all 
points of passage, and, ascending toward Montecitorio, 
had surrounded the obelisk. 

There were animated disputes at every street corner 
between the officers and persons who wished to pass the 
lines without a card; each professed to be an intimate 
friend of some deputy—ah, he could even see him in the 
distance—over there!—standing under the arch. And 
frantic signs were then made, but alas! the deputy never 
noticed them. 

A motley crowd pressed close behind the line of sold- 
diers; here and there a white or a red gown gave a 
touch of color to the dark ranks. 


32 MATILDE SERAO 


Before the principal entrance a wide, sandy space was 
left clear; from time to time a few gentlemen, with top- 
coats unbuttoned, or two or three ladies, fashionably 
gowned, crossed this space at a leisurely pace, the bet- 
ter to be observed. 

A group of three pretty women chatted near the great 
gate; one was attired in black, her bodice a sparkling 
mass of jet; another wore a costume of delicate gray; 
and the third was dressed in blue. They laughed and 
talked in clear tones, exchanged a profusion of compli- 
ments, and, conscious that they were envied and admired 
by the crowd, they prolonged this delightful moment. 
Then with a gay “A rivederci!” they entered the palace. 

The crowd increased every moment, coming from all 
directions, ebbing and flowing like a human tide against 
the wall of the military cordon. 

The windows of the Albergo Milano were filled with 
curious faces, and from the windows in the mansard 
roofs appeared the smooth-shaved faces of man-servants 
and the white caps of maids. 

The large bay-windows of the Pensione dell’ Unione, 
the small-paned windows of the Fanfulla, and the balcon- 
ies of the Wedekind Palace, contained several rows of 
spectators; and in the adjacent streets the houses, ter- 
races, even the roofs, were black with people. At 
Aragno’s Café the women had climbed up on the tables 
in order to see over the heads of the crowd. 

The solemn hour of the formal opening approached; 
the invited guests began to cross the open space in front 
of the main entrance, the gravel crackling under their 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 33 


feet. Occasionally some one appeared with a row of 
medals glittering on his lapel. The carriages arrived, 
with their horses at a trot, turning the obelisk with a 
sweeping curve and drawing up before the grand 
entrance. These were the official carriages, containing 
the ministers, senators, and the diplomatic corps; from 
them descended elderly gentlemen, assisted by a servant 
or a secretary; a blue or a red uniform was visible an 
instant, and then disappeared in the palace. 

On a small platform two journalists in black coats 
and soft hats jotted down the names of the celebrities 
that passed; one was short, with a pointed beard and 
cold gray eyes behind gold eyeglasses; the other was 
stout and pale, with a sparse moustache and a mocking 
smile. They were the managers of two great Roman 
newspapers, reporting in person the events of this im- 
portant day, and laughing slyly at some of the odd-look- 
ing persons that passed. | 

The sun was now shining full upon the Piazza Monte- 
citorio, lighting up the ranks of the soldiery, with their 
white gaiters, blue capes, shining leather caps, and the 
glitter of steel and of gold laces. A low, heavy rumble 
was heard coming from a distance: the sound of cannon. 
From that vast throng arose one great sigh of satis- 
faction: 

“The procession! The procession!” was heard on all 
sides. 

The roar of cannon had been audible in the Legisla- 
tive Chamber. There was a moment of perfect silence; 


then a light murmur of voices arose, fans fluttered, femi- 
3 


34 MATILDE SERAO 


nine chatter went on, mingled with the frou-frou of silken 
skirts, and laughter discreetly suppressed. 

The Chamber was transformed. A temporary gallery, 
accommodating four rows of guests, had been construct- 
ed behind the last row of deputies’ benches. The two 
side stairways were closely packed with people, the 
ladies sitting on the steps, while the men stood leaning 
against the frail balustrade. 

The galleries, too, were crowded. The gallery for the 
press, which was the most advantageously placed for 
hearing the speeches, had been given up to the public 
for this occasion, and the reporters were scattered here 
and there in the best places. 

The ladies’ gallery abounded in brilliant costumes, 
and that of the military fairly glittered with gold lace 
and epaulettes. The Speaker’s gallery resounded with 
sighs and complaints, for the royal canopy had been 
placed directly under it, and this would hide the King 
from view. The two large lJoges at the corner, for the 
senate and the diplomatic corps, were still empty, heavily 
shaded by the blue velvet draperies on their brown walls. 

The benches had been removed from the semicircle, 
as well as the long bench for the Ministers, called by the 
Opposition “the bench of the accused.” ‘The small table 
for the stenographers had disappeared also, and a plat- 
form covered with red cloth had been erected on the 
spot where the speaker’s chair usually stood. Over this 
a large red velvet canopy, fringed with gold, cast a mys- 
terious shadow on the royal throne, upon which the 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 35 


gold decoration sparkled like the ornaments on a sacred 
reliquary. 

The members were grouped in the semicircle, bowing 
to acquaintances, smiling at pretty women, making 
friendly signals to their constituents. The light, friv- 
olous laughing chatter of the ladies could be heard above 
all other sounds. 

A handsome brunette, wearing a coquettish pink hat, 
regarded with amused interest the distinguished po- 
litical personages pointed out to her by the Honorable 
Rosolino Scalia, a Sicilian member, of correct and serious 
demeanor, looking like an officer in civilian attire, and 
wearing a small withered daisy in his buttonhole. 

The lady listened to his explanations, leaned forward, 
threw quick glances here and there through her lorgnette, 
with a satirical smile on her pretty face-—Oh, was that . 
the Honorable Cavalieri, the Calabrian—the deputy 
who was so notoriously Calabrian? A patriot, was he? 
Yes, of course—everyone knew that; but he wore too 
many decorations! And that thin blond man, with his 
hair brushed straight back—was that the Honorable 
Dalma, the literary deputy who talked in the House 
about Ophelia and against the taxing of women? Why 
was he not made a Minister? Was it indeed a genuine 
passion with them, this devotion to politics—and why? 
Scalia, somewhat bored by her frivolous prattle, tried to 
prove to the lady that, however trifling the great game 
of politics might seem to those who did not take it se- 
riously, it was none the less noble and worthy of devo- 
tion. But she shook her head, unconvinced, her silvery, 


36 ~MATILDE SERAO 


frivolous laugh ringing out again, and she continued to. 
bore her companion with idle questions. 

The public was not impatient. The women were only 
too happy to sit there on view, shown off like dolls in a 
window; they fluttered their fans, made quick move- 
ments of the head in order to make their diamond ear- 
rings sparkle, and used their opera-glasses continually. 

The men complained of having been compelled to make 
a formal toilet so early in the day; some affected to be 
bored to death. But invitations to luncheons circulated, 
and many appointments to dine at the restaurants were 
made, in order to talk over the ceremonies of the day. 

The Chamber itself was not in harmony with the bril- 
liant gathering. Certainly, the windows of the skylight | 
in the dome had been washed, but the rosy light of that 
bright morning fell white and cold through the glass, like 
the pale rays that pass through the transparent walls of 
an aquarium. The dark wood of the vast hall, with its 
blue border, seemed to absorb all the light, reducing the 
whole interior to a gloomy monotone. Nevertheless, this 
place, which equalized the faces of all sorts and condi- 
tions of men, this democratic uniformity, to which the 
most rebellious must submit, produced a profound im- 
pression: the Chamber appeared as a sacred place, where 
personal individuality was swallowed up; a mysterious 
spot, wherein reigned intelligence, will, and energy, in 
which, to be distinguished from the multitude, a man 
must possess an almost incredible amount of religious 
ardor, or a degree of sacrilege so audacious as to enable 
him to overthrow an altar. And the great royal canopy, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 37 


with its rich and heavy red velvet folds, bordered with 
gold fringe and gathered up and fastened by the claws of 
a golden eagle, the throne standing within a mysterious 
shadow, gave the effect of a tabernacle or of some sacred 
shrine wherein was hidden an unknown power. 

Suddenly the deputies hastened to their places, silence 
fell upon the humming galleries; without, the bersaglieri 
blew the clear notes of the trumpets. A great burst of 
applause rent the air; even the ladies clapped their dain- 
tily gloved hands vigorously, leaning forward to get a 
better view. 

From the diplomatic gallery the Queen bowed to right 
and left, and the dazzling fairness of her complexion 
triumphed over the general dinginess of the surround- 
ings. She looked still fresh and youthful under the wide 
border of her hat. And, as she seated herself slightly in 
advance of her suite, a new, resounding, and enthusiastic 
acclamation greeted her, which drew forth another gra- 
cious salute. 

The spectators became excited; they leaned to the right 
and the left; the journalists exchanged audible remarks: 
—Where is the German Ambassador?—Over there, see! 
with his good-natured face, his white moustache and gray 
eyes.—Who is the lady in violet, behind the Princess Co- 
lonna?—Oh, that is the Princess Lavinia Taverna, a Pi- 
ombino.—The murmur and chatter broke out afresh; 
questions, answers, and discussions made a sound like the 
buzzing of a million flies. 

Now the King appeared at the entrance on the right, 
surrounded by the gentlemen of his household and his 


38 MATILDE SERAO 


ministers, and followed by the deputies whose duty it had 
been to receive him. 

In three steps he was under the canopy, made two or 
three nervous, involuntary movements, and saluted the 
assemblage with his beplumed gold helmet. Brown and 
thin, but strong, wearing the uniform of a general, with 
white collar, close-fitting trousers, helmet on his head, 
and taking the attitude of a soldier at attention, he was 
the ideal picture of a military leader, ready to fight, to 
ride, or to sleep under a tent; he resembled one of those 
ancient portraits of a general-in-chief, with pale brow and 
eagle glance, presenting with a bold gesture a parch- 
ment on which is drawn the plan of a fortress. 

The old Prince di Savoia-Carignano, the King’s uncle, 
placed himself at the right of the throne and remained 
respectfully standing; the Duke di Genoa, brother of the 
Queen and cousin of the King, stood at the left, a little in 
the background; and ranged in a semicircle were the 
Ministers and the members of the royal household. 

The voice of the King, somewhat harsh and strident, 
rose in the midst of a profound silence. Many of the 
auditors remembered a former assembly, when another 
voice, equally harsh and a little indistinct, had pro- 
nounced the loyal words that had sealed the national 
compact. Every face was attentive, all eyes were fixed 
upon the King, whose breathing was distinctly audible 
between one sentence and the next. 

The Queen, seated in the diplomatic gallery, listened 
without a smile, her handsome face grave and serious; 
the ladies of the Court also appeared deeply absorbed; 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 39 


the ambassadors listened with amiable smiles; the public 
hung upon the royal words, without losing a syllable; 
and the deputies, standing, paid the strictest attention 
to their sovereign’s remarks. 

From time to time a thrill of satisfaction ran through 
the assemblage, and twice his Majesty was interrupt- 
ed by applause. Occasionally some strongly accented 
phrase seemed to rise toward the dome: peace—justice— 
finance! Then the King would suddenly lower his voice, 
as if he disdained the final applause which he knew would 
follow his words. He hastened his closing phrases, as if 
fatigued, and the end of the message was barely audible. 
He took up his helmet quickly from the chair where he 
had placed it, amid cries of “Long live the King!” 

The assemblage remained motionless a moment, im- 
pressed by the spectacle of their King, who, once a year, 
appeared before them to express his wishes and to give 
them solemn promises. Some of the more sensitive 
women felt a light, cold moisture of perspiration on their 
temples; others fanned themselves with feverish haste, 
murmuring “Beautiful! beautiful!’ while the greater 
number sought to discover traces of emotion on the pale 
face of the Queen. 

The swearing-in began. The old Depretis advanced, 
and read the formula for the deputies and the senators, 
scanning the words as if he wished to imprint them on 
the memory of his auditors. 

The Duke di Genoa was the first to take the oath, 
which he did in naval fashion, with an energetic gesture 
and a vibrant voice; some one applauded him. 


40 MATILDE SERAO 


Eight new senators succeeded him. Depretis pro- 
nounced their names aloud, pausing a moment after each 
one, and from the group was heard sometimes a weak 
voice, sometimes a strong one, saying, “I swear!” 

In that moment of waiting, all seemed to hold their 
breath, while the King looked at the man whose name 
had been called, examining him curiously. 

The old soldiers took the oath in military fashion, with 
hand on the heart; the lawyers took it in loud tones, that 
the whole audience might hear them; the veteran parlia- 
mentarians repeated the formula with an indifferent air 
and in an undertone, while the radicals hurried over the 
ceremony as if to get rid of a disagreeable duty. When 
Depretis’s own turn came, he withdrew his right hand 
from the breast of his ministerial uniform, extended his 
arm and took the oath with much solemnity. For some 
reason, this made many of the spectators laugh. 

The new members were deeply impressed by all this 
parliamentary pomp, and those among them who ap- 
peared to be the most self-contained and confident trem- 
bled when they heard their names called, and took the 
oath in faint tones that were barely audible. Others 
played nervously with their watch-chains, ejaculated a 
smothered “I swear!” and fell back into their chairs. 

Between a Florentine duke and the Deputy Santini, the 
Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio took the oath in a voice 
so low that no one heard it. 

At the conclusion of the ceremonies, the deputies 
hastened out to the grand entrance to see the King and 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME At 


the Queen get into their carriage. The throng inundated 
the Piazza Montecitorio, and, at the appearance of the 
royal equipage, from all the streets, houses, balconies, 
roofs and terraces, a frantic acclamation rose and swelled 


in the clear air. 


CHAPTER IV 


MYSTERIES OF ROME 


UMBER 50 in the Via Angelo Custode was next 
door to a great seigneurial palace, gray, damp, 
and dismal. Francesco Sangiorgio hesitated, 
for he saw no one to whom he could apply for 

information. At last he risked himself within the dark 
vestibule, and on tiptoe approached a winding stairway. 

He began the ascent, first lighting a match in order 
to see his way. At the first floor there was a little more ~ 
light, and at the second he could almost see. Three 
doors opened upon this landing, and upon the middle 
door was pinned a soiled card bearing the name Ales- 
sandro Bertacchini. The deputy consulted the paper given 
to him by the house-agent. This was the right place. He 
knocked. 

No one came; he knocked again. Then he heard a 
rattling of keys and chains, of bolts pushing and drawing, 
and finally the door was half-opened, revealing a man 
with a red nose and hair curling on his temples. The 
Honorable Sangiorgio raised his hat, and inquired 
whether this was the apartment of Signor Alessandro 
Bertacchini. 

“Precisely, Signor! I am he.” 

“Have you not an apartment to rent on the third 


floor?” 
42 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 43 


Signor Alessandro eyed the stranger carefully, ob- 
served the gold medal, and responded affirmatively. He 
thrust his hands into his pockets, then left the deputy 
standing on the landing for a moment, while he went to 
find his keys. Through the half-open doorway Sangior- 
gio perceived a dim antechamber, containing only a 
chair, a table and a lamp, and sending forth a disagree- 
able odor of ancient dust and dirt. 

“Here I am, Signor,” murmured Signor Alessandro, re- 
turning quickly. 

He opened the door at the left, showing a tiny room 
furnished with a single chair. They entered it, and 
passed through into a long narrow room. 

On one side of this apartment stood a sofa covered 
with crimson cloth, flanked by two armchairs decorated 
with crocheted “tidies,” and on the floor lay small squares 
of carpet serving as rugs. Opposite was a white mar- 
ble mantelpiece, on which stood two large petroleum 
lamps, a silent clock, and a few framed photographs. 

Hanging on the wall was a mirror of greenish glass, 
with little colored pictures of the royal family stuck in 
its frame. Before the window stood a small writing- 
table, ornamented with a knitted cover, formed of green, 
violet, scarlet, and orange stars, with a match-holder 
sewed to the center. The windows were hung with long 
lace curtains beneath red woolen draperies. 

“This is the drawing-room,” said Signor Alessandro, 
with an air of fatigue, his chilled hands still thrust into 
the pockets of his short coat. 

Francesco Sangiorgio approached the window, which 


44 MATILDE SERAO 


gave a view of an inside courtyard, surrounded by other 
windows, back yards, and balconies. A branch of a tree 
projected from the yard of a neighboring house. From 
the various kitchens rose an odor of cabbage, dirty ket- 
tles and stale water. Signor Alessandro said nothing, 
but allowed the deputy to examine the apartment. 

The bedroom appeared as narrow as a trench; along 
one side stood the bed, the night-table, and an armchair 
covered with blue cloth, on which a great stain had ob- 
literated part of the color. Opposite this was a bureau, 
the top of which had been stained with dampness, and 
on which stood a drinking-glass between two empty cop- 
per candlesticks. 

The toilet-table occupied a corner, and this, too, dis- - 
played lace curtains surmounted by drapery of black 
cretonne covered with huge blue and yellow roses. The 
luxury of this room consisted in a brown woolen quilt 
on the bed, decorated with an arabesque design in many 
colors. 

“What is the price of this apartment?” asked the Hon- 
orable Sangiorgio. 

“Eighty lire a month—in advance,” murmured Signor 
Alessandro. 

“And the service?” 

“I have a woman who makes the bed, sweeps, brushes 
the clothes and polishes shoes. Eight lire a month extra 
—in advance.” Here he sighed deeply, and smoothed 
his hair, which was as black and polished as ebony. 

“Ah! That is rather dear—eighty lire.” 

Signor Alessandro made no reply, appearing not to 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 45 


have animation enough to discuss the matter. He merely 
added, as they left the apartment: 

“You could have private entrance.” 

The deputy departed, shrugging his shoulders. 

In the street he met the wife of the Minister he had 
seen at the railway station. Tall, slender, and grace- 
ful, attired in black, with a velvet cloak, she looked very 
youthful and rosy under her little veil. She walked 
rhythmically, her hands in her muff, with drooping eye- 
lids, as if in deep thought. In that face shone so much 
sweetness and dignity that Sangiorgio saluted her in- 
voluntarily. She did not notice him, but continued her 
walk undisturbed. 

The young man felt some annoyance at being thus 
ignored; he turned his steps toward the Piazza del Pan- 
theon, to seek another house mentioned by the agent. 

This building was close to the Pantheon, and next door 
to a bake-shop. 

In the basement were two windows, with white shades. 
Sangiorgio mounted to the first floor, and saw three 
doors, each bearing pink-tinted cards inscribed in violet 
ink with feminine names. 

The right-hand door, which had the name Virginia 
Magnani, was opened by a slatternly maid, who stared 
boldly at Sangiorgio without speaking. Her mistress ap- 
peared immediately—a little woman in a blue tea-gown 
adorned with white lace, with her hair in curl-papers and 
diffusing a strong odor of musk. 

“Has the Signor come to inquire about the apartment?” 
she said sweetly, 


46 MATILDE SERAO 


“You may go, Nanna! Come.in, come in, Signor; I 
am entirely at your service. Do excuse me for receiving 
you like this, but in the morning one never quite finishes 
dressing. I often go to the theater with Toto to hear 
Duse, so of course we get up rather late after it.” 

The deputy listened, astonished at the loquacity of this 
powdered and perfumed little woman. | 

“Did Pachalsky send you here?” said she inquisitively. 

“Yes, Signora.” 

“I thought so. Pachalsky knows that I rent my room 
exclusively to deputies. But come in, Signor. This is 
the reception-room, with a table and writing-materials 
for the use of constituents who may call and find their 
deputy out. The Honorable Santelli lived here for some 
time. He was besieged with callers from morning till 
night; he never had a minute’s rest, and hardly had time 
to breathe. He used to say to me when we chatted to- 
gether—he was so polite, that Honorable Santelli!— 
‘Signora Virginia, I cannot go on like this!’ Here, as 
you see, is the drawing-room—neat and elegant. I 
worked all this tapestry myself, in days when I was 
younger and happier than now—alas! The general effect 
is very comfortable—with curtains, carpets, cushions— 
everything! The Deputy Gagliardi was so well pleased 
here that he never would have left me if the voters in 
his district had not played him the trick of not re- 
electing him. But political life is full of such disappoint- 
ments!” 

She assumed a grave air, compressing her lips, and 
holding her head on one side. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 47 


The drawing-room, as a matter of fact, was not dis- 
similar to the one in the Via Angelo Custode. There 
were a few more faded hangings, a greater number of 
photographs, and a rocking-chair; the gilded frame of the 
mirror was covered with green gauze, to protect it from 
flies. 

“And this,” the Signora Virginia continued, in a strong 
Roman accent, “is the bedroom. There is a little library 
also, for most of my guests are very studious. There 
was the Honorable Gatti—he was always reading ro- 
mances. Do you read novels, Signor?” 

“No, Signora, never.” 

“T am sorry for that, for you might have lent me some 
new ones! This room really needs a clothes closet, but 
I am waiting for a good chance to buy one. But you 
could let me take your things and I will hang them in 
my wardrobe, where they will be quite safe. Otherwise, 
as you see, nothing is lacking—here are the toilet-table 
and bed—eider-down quilt—everything! And all so 
clean! It does not become me to say it, of course, but 
every morning Toto thanks God for having given him 
a wife like his Virginia! And now—to whom have I 
the honor of speaking?” 

“Francesco Sangiorgio.” 

“Deputy from’— 

“Tito, in the Basilicata.” 

“Well, Honorable Sangiorgio, the price of this charm- 
ing little apartment is one hundred and thirty lire a 
month, not a centisimo less, because I really make noth- 
ing from it. If I had to depend upon letting my rooms, 


48 MATILDE SERAO 


I should fare badly. In the reception-room there is a 
door leading to my own rooms, but when it is locked you 
have your own private entrance. Should you require a 
private entrance, Signor?” 

And she regarded him narrowly, with a cat-like gaze. 
The deputy did not understand. 

“‘Why—really—I do not know,” he replied at random. 

“Because in that case the price would be twenty lire 
more each month—in all, one hundred and fifty lire. But 
if you are married, and require other rooms for your 
wife, my sister has two on this floor that she will rent.” 

“I am a bachelor, Signora.” 

“Oh, then we will say no more about that. And you 
are wise not to marry too young. I, thank heaven! have 
no reason to complain, because my Toto is the best of 
men, but liberty is sweet! I used to say that to the 
Honorable Gatti, who was a bachelor like yourself, and 
he would say gallantly, ‘I would not marry unless I could 
find another Virginia, but there are no more like her!’ 
Well, as we were saying—one hundred and thirty lire a 
month, ten lire for service, and five lire for the light on 
the stairs, the gas to burn until eleven o’clock. I could 
look after your washing, too; I have an excellent laun- 
dress, and she never uses potash in the water. And if 
you ever tire of restaurant dinners, and wish for a cozy 
little meal at home, Toto, my husband, amuses himself 
with making dumplings that are indeed fit for a king. I 
never go into the kitchen myself; I am too delicate.” 

Sangiorgio remained cold and distant under this flow 
of words, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 49 


“Well, what is your decision, Signor Deputy?” sud- 
denly demanded the Signora Virginia, in a harder tone. 
“I have many applicants, as of course you understand 
that an apartment like this does not remain long vacant.” 

“T do not wish to cause you to lose a lodger, Signora,” 
said the deputy, whose naturally suspicious mind was 
aroused. “I will write you my decision.” 

A may expect a letter, then. Shall I call for it at Par- 
liament House?” the little woman replied, again becom- 
ing obsequious. 

“Do not trouble yourself, Signora. I will send the let- 
ter here.” 

The Signora bowed and extended her hand, with the 
gesture of a great lady. Sangiorgio left the house quite 
dazed with her gabble; he felt as fatigued as if he had 
visited ten houses. 

Two more addresses were inscribed on his bit of paper; 
he took a carriage to go to the Via del Gambero, since 
he did not know the way. This street had the air of 
mystery peculiar to the streets parallel to the Corso, the 
thoroughfare of hurrying men and women with affaires 
on their minds. The great Palazzo Raggi, with its court- 
yard as large as a whole square, was often passed by 
persons who were trying to avoid the crowd, or to escape 
some dangerous encounter, and who walked rapidly 
without looking behind them. 

Number 37 was a respectable-looking place, with a lit- 
tle vestibule lighted by small windows. A woman came 
out to meet the deputy. 


“Have you an apartment to let on the third floor?” 
4 


50 MATILDE SERAO 


“Yes, Signor. Do you wish to see it?” 

“Yes.” 

The woman chose a key and entered the house, mak- 
ing a sign to Sangiorgio to follow her. She wore an old 
green gown, faded and worn, with soiled satin trimming. 
Her head was covered with a red wig, with a braided 
chignon and frizzes on the forehead, and she sported red 
silk stockings with run-down slippers. In her flabby. 
freckled cheeks, in the purplish hue of her infantile 
mouth were traces of a countenance that must once have 
been full, round and rosy, but which with age had col- 
lapsed, like that of a doll from which the sawdust has 
run out. 

The stairway was wide and light, with three doors on 
each landing. On the first floor, at the right, Sangiorgio 
read: Barone di Sangarzia, Deputy; no card was on 
the middle door, but on that at the left an inscription 
read: Anna Scartozzi, Dressmaker. 

On the second floor, at the right, the card announced: 
Marchese di Tuttavilla, Deputy; the middle door again was 
blank, and the one on the left had a card marked: 
Bureau of Commissions. 

“Do these two deputies occupy furnished rooms?” in- 
quired Sangiorgio. 

“No, Signor, the furniture is their own, but the plan 
of the apartments is the same as the others,” the woman 
replied, unlocking the door at the right on the third floor, 
where a card on the door at the left read: Paul Galasso, 
Dentist. 

The apartment was very light and gave a good view 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 51 


of the street. The furniture had some pretensions to 
elegance. A vase of fine faience stood on a table, and 
there was a fireplace—a real fireplace—the height of lux- 
ury in a Roman house of the middle class. 

“You can light a fire here, you see, and on a winter 
evening, after dinner, that is delightful,” said the woman. 
“Each apartment has its own fireplace; and the deputy 
on the first floor keeps a fine fire burning all day long.” 

“But does he not attend Parliament?” inquired San- 
giorgio, surprised. 

“Not always—not always!” the woman answered, her 
face wrinkling into a malicious smile. 

“And what is the price of these apartments?” Sangior- 
giorgio, surprised. 

“One hundred and eighty lire a month, Signor.” 

“That is very dear.” 

“Oh, no, Signor! If you will inquire about prices, you 
will see that that is very reasonable for an apartment in 
the middle of Rome, two steps from the Corso. And of 
course it is not for me to boast, but the rooms are really 
charming.” 

She furtively fluffed up the front frizzes of her shabby 
wig. 

“It is dear,” Sangiorgio insisted. 

“Of course, you are not compelled to take it, Signor, 
but I assure you that you will not find anywhere an 
apartment like this, with a fireplace and a private en- 
trance, elegant furniture, everything quiet, and every- 
one minding his own affairs and not inquiring about his 
neighbors’. The deputy on the first floor has been here 


52 MATILDE SERAO 


more than four years, and the one on the second floor 
two years. The dressmaker has only the best custom— 
the most aristocratic ladies in Rome drive up in their 
carriages to my door’— 

“That may be true, but really it does not concern me.” 

“True, Signor! But I am sure you will return, for you 
will find nowhere a place like this. Yes, you will return, 

‘Signor Deputy, believe me!” 

As Sangiorgio descended the stairs, he met a lady com- 
ing up; she was enveloped in a large otter cape, and her 
face was covered with a thick veil. She ascended slowly, 
and paused near the door of the dressmaker. 

“One of Scartozzi’s customers,” whispered the woman 
to Sangiorgio. “She has come to try on a gown, prob- 
ably.” 

But the fair unknown proceeded to ascend the next 
flight, and knocked at the door of the deputy on the 
second floor. 

In order to finish this tiresome business in one morn- 
ing, Sangiorgio ordered his coachman to drive to the 
last address on his list, in the Via di Due Macelli, a 
bright, sunny street, having a certain air of aristocratic 
refinement. 

Number 128 was situated between an English grocer’s 
shop, which gave forth a piquant odor, and a florist’s hot- 
house, with a fine display in the windows of reeds, rushes, 
baskets of gilded wickerwork or of rustic wood, in which 
were growing roses and lilies of the valley, the first of 
the season. The stairs were marble, white and shining, 
and well lighted from above. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 53 


On each landing were handsome doors of veined maple, 
ornamented with bright brass knockers. A man in livery 
opened a door and showed the Honorable Sangiorgio into 
a dim reception-room, saying that he would inform the 
Signora of his presence. 

The deputy felt his feet sink into a soft, thick carpet, 
and groped his way in the half-light to a seat in a low 
and luxurious armchair. He distinguished a large cen- 
ter-table, covered with yellow plush, on which stood a 
Japanese ash-tray and a graceful Venetian vase. 

A light step was heard, and the mistress of the house 
entered. She was tall, with a finely-moulded figure; 
her hair was carefully waved, and held in place by light 
tortoiseshell combs. Her gown was of simple black, but 
of soft and rich material, with a high collar of snowy 
linen fastened with a gold horseshoe pin. 

“Will you come with me, Signor?” said the lady softly. 

They went out on the landing; in the clearer light she 
appeared to be about thirty years old, with a complexion 
of ivory whiteness and deep, mysterious black eyes. 

The apartment to which she conducted Sangiorgio was 
small, but bright and cheerful. The drawing-room was 
furnished in pink and gray chintz, of delicate tones; the 
mirror had a frame of handsomely carved wood; a low 
sofa stood near a window draped with long embroidered 
muslin curtains that touched the floor. A variety of 
photographs was scattered over the walls, as if thrown 
here and there by chance. 

A small cabinet stood in a corner; upon it was a red 
plush photograph frame, empty. The bedroom had pale- 


54 MATILDE SERAO 


blue satin furniture, with the toilet-table draped in white 
muslin held by knots of satin ribbon. There was a ward- 
robe with glass doors, a pretty little bed, and at the lace- 
draped windows the same tender shade of blue was re- 
peated in transparent curtains of silk. 

“There is a dressing-room also,” the lady murmured, 
without a smile. 

“T will not trouble you to show it,” the deputy replied. 

“No, no, I wish to show it to you, because it has a 
private entrance from the hall. It is very convenient,” 
she added, simply, looking attentively at one of her 
hands, and stroking it to make it look whiter. In her 
black robe, with its statuesque folds, her regular Roman 
features and alabaster skin, she commanded respect. 
Sangiorgio treated her as if she were a woman of high 
society. 

“This apartment is too luxurious for me,” said he, 
with a slight touch of shyness. “I admire it very much, 
but my habits are most plain and simple.” 

“Ah!” said the lady, with an expression of polite in- 
credulity. 

“Yes, I assure you I am somewhat of a savage,” he 
continued. “I need only a quiet place for my work— 
nothing more. I pass all my time at Parliament House. 
This place is rather—rather feminine, I think.” 

“Possibly. I had a Russian lady here last, but she 
was suddenly recalled to her own country.” She paused. 

“What is the price?” the deputy inquired hesitatingly. 

“Two hundred and fifty lire a month,” the lady replied 
nonchalantly, adjusting the golden horseshoe. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 55 


“Service and gas included, I suppose?” said Sangiorgio, 
with polite curiosity. 

“You must arrange about service with my maid.” 

“Oh, certainly—of course!’ said the deputy apologet- 
ically. 

The lady of the mysterious eyes showed Sangiorgio 
silently to the door, took leave of him with a smile— 
her first—but did not offer to shake hands with him. 

By this time the deputy felt exhausted, overcome by 
a sort of moral lassitude. The November sun seemed to 
send forth rays as ardent as those of midsummer, and 
the air felt stifling. 

There certainly had been some subtly powerful per- 
fume in that house—one of those perfumes that excite the 
nerves and senses; perhaps it had been worn by that 
strange woman, so pale, so severe, looking like a patri- 
cian abbess in her long black robe. As he walked along 
slowly, he pondered over that pretty pink and gray 
drawing-room, so fresh in its simplicity, and the dainty 
blue chamber with its floating muslin curtains, which 
seemed like a cozy nest, perched high in the air, far from 
all disturbance. His mind dwelt upon that retreat as 
the place where the unknown Russian lady must have 
reposed, with the dreams of an incomprehensible for- 
eigner; of that little cabinet where she must have written 
her letters; of the toilet-table which had reflected her 
beauty; above all, of that red plush frame, standing 
empty as if a hasty traveler had taken from it some cher- 
ished photograph. 

Sangiorgio had unconsciously entered the Café Aragno; 


56 MATILDE SERAO 


he sat down in a small room at the rear, and ordered a 
glass of cognac to cheer his depressed spirits. | 

He found himself thinking again of the lady in the fur 
cloak whom he had passed on the stairs in the Via del 
Gambero; he had remarked at the time that she had a 
dainty little foot as she went up the stairs. The janitress 
must know who she was! What a fright she was, that 
old janitress, with her frowzy red wig! But who knows? 
She may have been handsome once! Then there was 
that curious Signora Virginia, who read novels while her 
husband cooked! What a queer world! 

Little by little his spirits rose, and he felt an irre- 
sistible desire to decipher all these feminine puzzles: the 
Via di Due Macelli, the unknown Russian lady, and the 
mysterious eyes of the hostess; the Via del Gambero, the 
absurd janitress, and the veiled lady of the staircase; 
the house near the Pantheon, and the suggestive prattle 
of Signora Virginia. 

He felt a strange curiosity to know more of these 
elusive creatures who appeared to be hastening and hid- 
ing from some one; and in his mind’s eye, far above all 
these inferior beings, rose a compelling face, and a tall, 
stately figure, attired in richest black; her cheeks were 
like roses beneath her lace veil, and she walked with 
thythmic step and lowered eyelids. Where could she 
have been going at that hour—that lady—the wife of 
his Excellency? 

At this point in his reflections, Sangiorgio observed 
passing before his window the stout Duke di Bonito, the 
popular deputy from Naples. He walked with a heavy 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 57 


rolling gait that made him resemble a pinnace, or mer- 
chant-vessel—one of those flat, black craft, loaded with 
coal or macaroni that run between small Neapolitan 
ports. His faithful friend, the Deputy Pietraroia, accom- 
panied him: a man of calm face but of violent temper, 
who would sit for months in Parliament without speak- 
ing a word, and then suddenly break out some day into 
impassioned speech, astonishing everyone with his South- 
ern intensity. 

The Honorable Sangiorgio followed them with his 
eyes; they stopped a moment on the sidewalk, saluting 
the member of the Neapolitan trinity, the Honorable 
Piccirillo, blond and rosy, the redoubtable orator of the 
faubourgs. Piccirillo told a story, gesticulating, waving 
his hand, which had been injured in a duel, twisting a 
button on the topcoat of the Duke, who laughed with 
incredulous irony, while Pietraroia, calm as always, 
listened, and delicately stroked his moustache. 

The sight of these men brought Sangiorgio’s mind 
back to the parliamentary world; he felt refreshed, re- 
stored to himself. The women he had seen and talked to 
all day had filled his mind with idle trivialities and ab- 
surd perturbation. But now he had found again his 
moral equilibrium, and suddenly he comprehended the 
true character of all these furnished houses, apartments, 
and rooms, which are found in all parts of Rome, peo- 
pling it with a sordid mingling of bourgeoisie, dressmakers, 
janitresses, and complaisant servants. 

He realized what must be the intimacy necessarily es- 
tablished between these women and their lodgers, by a 


58 MATILDE SERAO 


continual promiscuity, an existence almost in common, 
by daily encounters at morning and evening. He could 
guess at the feminine domination beginning in the care 
of the rooms, extending to the laundry-work, then to the 
clothes, books and letters of the tenant, arriving by vari- 
ous ways to domination over the man himself. He per- 
ceived all the possibilities—dramatic, grotesque, and cor- 
rupt—that might arise from this system of private en- 
trances, lodgings for various purposes, English latch- - 
keys, doors open or locked, sliding bolts, mute bells, felt 
slippers, thick veils, and heavy mantles. And the great 
deceptiveness of Roman life—so correct in outward ap- 
pearance, so corrupt beneath the surface—was at last 
made clear to his mind. 

And, in his instinctive dread of the all-powerful femi- 
nine influence, in his wild desire for undisturbed solitude, 
he took the rooms in the Via Angelo Custode, where no 
women lived. 


CHAPTER V 


A ROMAN CHRISTMAS 


HE Corso on a holiday: the shops closed, the side- 
walks deserted, the cafés empty, hardly anyone 
in the streets, here and there a lady coming out 
of her house to be swallowed up in her car- 

riage. A soft breeze seemed to bear caresses on its 
wings. 

On that warm afternoon of Christmas Day, the or- 
dinary life of Rome seemed suspended. The central part 
of the city and the Corso, usually so gay and animated, 
with its four great squares, its elegant shops, its noisy 
restaurants. its busy crowds, were plunged in profound 
silence. 

The peace and calm of this sacred day—celebrated in 
the smaller cities by shouts of joy and discharges of 
musketry—astonished Sangiorgio, as did many things in 
this wonderful city of Rome, always new, always sur- 
prising. 

After reading the morning newspapers, which were 
filled with sentimental poems and prose on the birth of 
the Christ-Child, Sangiorgio went out and strolled about 
the streets for an hour. He felt more and more sur- 
prised at the silence in all quarters, for he had imagined 
the streets would be filled with a merrymaking throng, 


full of gayety and rejoicing: while in reality Rome 
59 


60 MATILDE SERAO 


seemed filled with the peaceful solemnity of a city of the 
dead. He regretted bitterly that he had not to spend 
Christmas with his old parents, in his poor and humble 
native Basilicata, and watch the burning of the Yule-log 
on the old familiar hearth. 

While his mind was rebelling against the strange 
charm that held him in this magic city, he saw in the 
distance a group of men following one who held a tri- 
colored flag. Marching with regular step, in advance of 
the flag, were several men of grave and dignified aspect. 

The color-bearer wore a leather cross-belt and an old 
hat perched rakishly over one ear. Twenty men, or per- 
haps more, followed him—old men wearing various med- 
als, some of them with stooping shoulders, others being — 
lame or half blind. These were the veterans of the bat- 
tles of 1848-49. The little procession was brought up in 
the rear by two men of unprepossessing appearance, with 
curled moustaches; they were two police detectives in 
plain clothes, carrying clubs under their coats. As they 
passed the Café Aragno, the waiters did not even turn 
their heads to look at the procession; they were well ac- 
customed to this sort of manifestation. 

Sangiorgio strolled idly along at a little distance from 
the procession, to see where they were going. As they 
passed the Pantheon—the tomb of the great king, Victor 
Emmanuel—the colors were dipped and the veterans 
saluted. 

The procession moved on, threading the dark, narrow 
streets of the old part of the city: everywhere the shops 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 61 


were shut, the windows closed, and a peaceful serenity 
reigned in the deserted streets and empty houses. 

It stopped at the entrance of the Sistine Bridge. Here 
a little more animation was manifest: several persons 
stood looking at the Tiber, which was of a pale yellow 
under the wintry sky; carriages passed with their horses 
at a trot, moderating their pace at the curve of the 
bridge. 

The whole quarter hereabouts was in process of de- 
molition and reconstruction ; heaps of stones, bricks, and 
rubbish lay about; in every direction could be seen the 
interior fittings of buildings, which had been torn out 
and thrown on the ground; also little lakes of hardened 
lime, overturned wheelbarrows, tall scaffoldings plastered 
with posters, and, in the distance, the beginning of a 
wide street, newly paved, and the barges lying at the 
quays of the Tiber. 

Light clouds floated along the horizon, over the Via 
Farnesina, and the yellow river rippled softly. At one 
point an enormous black raft, looking like some imple- 
ment of war but used in dredging, appeared to cut the 
stream in two. 

The procession turned into the Trastavere, crowaed 
with peasants in holiday garb. As the corner of a little 
street was turned, the procession and its followers found 
themselves suddenly in a wide avenue. On one side lay 
Rome, brilliant and attractive in the golden light; on 
the other rose the green summit of the Janiculum; mid- 
way between these showed the imposing walls of the 
Academy of Spain, around which curved the broad, wind- 


62 MATILDE SERAO 


ing road. Occasionally the procession was obliged to 
divide to make room for passing carriages, at the win- 
dows of some of which delicate feminine profiles could 
be seen. 

At another turn of the street, Sangiorgio heard his 
name called. He started, turned, and recognized the 
Honorable Giustini, a Tuscan deputy and his neighbor in 
the Chamber. He joined him. 

“Are you following the procession, my dear belleasie?” 
inquired Giustini, in a slightly ironic tone. 

“As a matter of curiosity—yes. And you?” 

“Oh, I—I am watching it pass, merely as a spectator. 
It is almost the same thing.” 

They turned and walked along together. 

The Honorable Giustini was neither lame, humpbacked, 
nor deformed, but one of his legs dragged slightly, 
one shoulder was a little higher than the other, and 
he appeared not to know what to do with his hands. 
His complexion had a clayey tinge, and with his pale- 
tinted eyes, sparse beard, and general air of boredom 
and fatigue, he suggested a person suffering from phys- 
ical and moral rickets. 

“These celebrations,” he said, “these processions, car- 
rying flags and laying wreaths on graves, are all alike. 
I have seen thousands of them, shall see many more, and 
I have even joined in them myself. Who has not in the 
course of his life?” 

“T have, certainly, when I was at the University,” 
Sangiorgio replied. 

“Who cares for all this nonsense?” Giustini continued, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 63 


shrugging his shoulders. “One must be very young 
to do so—say, twenty—the age of folly.” 

“Do not speak ill of youth,” said Sangiorgio. 

“Ah, to be sure—youth, love, death—the three themes 
sung by Leopardi. In reality, he sang only of two of 
them; the other claimed him for its own. All Southrons 
are Leopardists, are they not? What a bore he is! He 
took advantage of the fact that he was a humpback 
to write poetry and bore every one. I have a slight 
hump myself, but, thank God, I never have written any 
poems! Neither do I tire my colleagues at the Chamber 
by making long, windy speeches.” 

“That is true; you have not made a speech since 
Parliament opened.” 

“I wish my colleagues had followed my example. 
What insupportable babblers! What a prosy lot of talk 
about nothing!” 

Sangiorgio listened to him in silence, continuing the 
study of men and things which he had begun as soon as 
he had arrived in Rome, and which later was to prove 
one of his strongest powers. 

The procession now crossed the spacious square, on 
which opens the entrance to the Academy of Spain. Sev- 
eral carriages stood before the porte-cochére, one of 
which belonged to the Vatican, recognizable by its close- 
ly-shaved footman, looking like a sacristan in his black 
livery. 

The pedestrians stopped to watch the little band file 
past; a tall, thin gentleman, with a blond beard, leaned 


64 MATILDE SERAO 


upon a cane and exchanged greetings with the veterans 
as they passed him. 

“That individual would be very glad to belong to 
the modern movement, but that has not come yet,” 
Giustini resumed in his malicious tones. “A handsome 
man, is he not? That is Giorgio Serra—of course you 
have heard of him? His is a striking type: a combination 
of poet, apostle, dreamer, and believer. He is a man of 
honor—one of the few really likeable democrats. In his 
tastes he is an aristocrat; though he loves the people 
because he has a heart naturally tender and affectionate. 
You will see that he will go up to the Janiculum to wit- 
ness the ceremonies, but he will not speak; in some re- 
spects he is as delicately sensitive as a woman. We 
shall pass him in a moment, and you will see that he 
barely recognizes me, since he detests nothing more 
than the party to which you and I, my dear colleague, 
have the honor to belong.” 

“And why do you belong to it, Signor?” 

“Oh—I? Why, indeed?” said Giustini, with an indif- 
ferent shrug. : 

The two deputies were obliged very often to stand 
aside in order to avoid swift-moving carriages. 

“Are all these ladies going to see the ceremonies?” in- 
quired Sangiorgio. 

“Well, hardly!” said Giustini with a sneer. “Why, 
they don’t even know that any ceremonies are about 
to take place. They are all going to drive near the Villa 
Pamfili; the weather is fine, this sweet air quiets the 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 65 


nerves and soothes the mind—why bother themselves 
with serious things?” 

“What you say is only too true!” said Sangiorgio, with 
a gesture of contempt for the female sex in general. 

Giustini studied his face a moment, a little surprised. 
They had arrived at the Porta San Pancrazio. Two 
carabineers paced to and fro before one of those little 
inns where they sell vin des chateaux; a cross-road de- 
scended, bordered on the left by a hedge, on the right 
by a high stone wall, in a projection of which was a 
worm-eaten wooden door, bearing the name of the villa 
hidden behind that wall: // Vascello. Beside it was a 
memorial tablet, surrounded by a withered wreath. 

The procession halted beneath the tablet; the specta- 
tors pressed close behind it, leaving a free space on the 
road for the carriages driving toward the Villa Pamfili. 

The more elderly of the veterans grouped themselves 
around the flag, and stood silent and motionless, lost in 
recollections of the past. Our two deputies stood a 
little at one side of this group, Giustini affecting a 
bored air, while Sangiorgio, greatly interested, observed 
attentively all that went on. 

A workman mounted a ladder and removed the with- 
ered wreath, carefully wiped off the tablet with his 
sleeve and placed upon it a garland of fresh flowers. 
The group beneath the ladder applauded him. Seated 
astride of the wall, the guardian of the property, one of 
those pale and melancholy Roman peasants, looked on 
indifferently. 


A man suddenly climbed upon the driver’s seat of a 
5 


66 MATILDE SERAO 


fiacre, and was greeted by an enthusiastic cheer from the 
bystanders. 

He was a young man, blond and rather stout, with a 
small moustache and light blue eyes, hands as white as 
a woman’s, with almond-shaped nails and a large dia- 
mond ring on the little finger. He somehow suggested 
a hairdresser in Sunday attire, with his pink and slightly 
vulgar type of face. He smiled amiably, and raised a 
hand to ask for silence. The crowd pressed closer in 
order to hear him—veterans, students, workmen, cara- 
bineers and guards. 

The young man began his discourse in the soft and 
well-modulated voice of a drawing-room tenor, stopping 
to make effective pauses in his remarks, making gestures 
almost coquettish in their grace, and explaining the 
reason why, after the commemoration ceremonies of the 
previous April, they were conducting the same in 
December. 

Then he launched into a description of the siege of 
Rome, with as much interest as if he had been present 
on that occasion. The veterans nodded approval, much 
moved. 

The orator spoke with ease and eloquence, although 
his style was cold. He evinced some warmth, however, 
in speaking of the priesthood and the Vatican, indicating 
the latter by a dramatic sweep of his arm toward the 
left, and rolling his r’s theatrically. 

The veterans ceased to listen to him after a time; 
silent and abstracted, they were absorbed in the memo- 
ries of that sacred hill where they had fought for their 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 67 


country’s freedom, where their brothers-in-arms had 
fallen with disfigured faces and breasts pierced by the 
bullets of the chasseurs from Vincennes. Now and then 
one would murmur a sentence, recalling some incident, 
shaking his head as he leaned with hands upon his cane. 
—“That night we heard the French talking merrily in 
their tents’—. —‘“Do you remember Garibaldi’s negro 
servant, who died after his shoulder was shattered by a 
bomb?” —“What a superb man was Colonel Marara!” 
—‘‘Handsome and brave!” 

The orator concluded with a bombastic apostrophe to 
the Seven Hills of Rome, interspersed with a few banal 
allusions to events in Roman history. His friends, the 
students, crowded around him, full of enthusiasm, shout- 
ing and applauding. The young man bowed amiably, 
smiled, shook hands with everyone, and touched his fore- 
head lightly with a fine handkerchief, bordered with 
black and perfumed with new-mown hay. The work- 
men and peasants looked on, unmoved, with cynical 
smiles on their thin lips. A voice cried: 

“Serra! Serra! Where is Serra? Let Giorgio Ser- 
ra speak!” 

But Serra did not respond. Perhaps he was hiding 
modestly among the throng. 

“Serra! Serra!” cried the people, trying to catch a 
glimpse of the picturesque head of the artist-poet. 

But Serra had evidently disappeared. Perhaps the 
gentle dreamer, repelled by realities, had returned to 
that Rome he loved so well, or perhaps, following the 
line of the hedge abloom with roses and hawthorn, he 


68 MATILDE SERAO 


had lost himself among the shaded paths of the Villa 
Pamfili, dwelling again upon his cherished illusions in 
that peaceful seclusion, near to nature’s heart. 

“I told you he would not speak,” said Giustini to San- 
giorgio. “He hates oratory.” 

“He is wrong,” Sangiorgio replied. “Oratory has 
great power.” 

Again the Tuscan deputy looked closely at the deputy 
from the South. There was no bond of sympathy, friend- 
ship, or interest between these two men; but each felt 
a certain curiosity, a desire to know the otner’s real 
nature, mingled with a vague distrust, like that of two 
fencers who have put themselves on guard and try to 
ascertain each other’s skill before making an open as- 
sault. 

The crowd dispersed slowly; the flag had been borne 
away; the veterans had disbanded and were returning 
to the city in little groups, with dragging step, and lean- 
ing wearily upon their canes. A few turned to obtain 
a last glimpse of the spot they had left. 

The young orator had jumped out of the carriage, and 
now moved away with his friends. He had added to 
his boutonniére a rose plucked from the blooming hedge, 
and proceeded to smooth his gloves delicately upon his 
white hands, his slender stick tucked under one arm. 
The workmen returned to the little inn, where they 
gathered around a table to drink the sour and sulphur- 
ous vin des chateaux. 

After ten minutes, not a person remained beside the 
monument raised in honor of the heroes of 1848. In the 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 69 


solitude, the villa of // Vascello resumed its aspect of a 
deserted house, of which only the facade remained 
standing. The sleepy guard perched on the wall was the 
only living thing in sight; he leaned his head on his 
hand, and gazed indifferently down the road. 

The two deputies, chatting idly, had descended the hill 
as far as the great square of the Fountain of Paul III. 
Twilight came on, and a warm mist spread over the city. 
The carriages were now beginning to return toward 
Rome from the Villa Pamfili. 

Leaning upon the parapet of the terrace that over- 
looks the city, the two men watched the passing vehicles, 
and several times Giustini bowed with somewhat per- 
functory courtesy to certain ladies who recognized him. 

“That is the Countess Baldassarri,” he said, as a hand- 
some carriage passed. “Very pretty woman—married 
to an old senator. But she is a little fool, and I no longer 
frequent her house. She is mad after literary men, and 
cares to have only poets call on her! There is always a 
crowd of them in her drawing-room. 

“That lady is the Baroness Gagliarda—stupid, ugly, 
and full of malice. She is always planning to overthrow 
the Cabinet, and if by chance it does fall, she puts on 
an air of triumph. And, as a refinement of cruelty, she 
goes to visit the wives of the Ministers on the very day 
they are deposed. But she often launches young depu- 
ties in the social swim, and is of some importance—or, 
at least, she thinks she is!” 
“Do you visit her house?” 


70 MATILDE SERAO 


“I? No, not now—I am no longer a young deputy! 
Ah, here is the wife of his Excellency.” 

Both men bowed profoundly, and, behind the window 
of her coupé, the lady graciously acknowledged the 
salute. Sangiorgio said nothing, but waited with a 
vague apprehension for some sarcastic remark from 
Giustini. 

“Pretty woman, his Excellency’s wife, but too young 
and too pretty for him. She is faithful to him, however 
—no one knows why. Her woman friends detest her 
cordially, but pretend to admire her. She is virtuous 
by calculation, by hypocrisy, and perhaps by natural 
coldness.” 

“Do you go to his Excellency’s house?” 

“No, I am too Ministerial in my leanings.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What should I do there? I am a convert, you see! 
You can understand, therefore, that I should not be wel- 
come. But I might abandon the Opposition if I went 
often to that house. It irritates me to see so young and 
charming a creature tied to a dry old stick of a husband, 
who thinks of nothing but politics. Besides, Donna 
Angelica is so sweet and kind—she might spoil me.” 

“Donna Angelica!” murmured Sangiorgio. 

Giustini did not hear him; he had lifted his hat again 
to the occupant of a passing carriage. This time the 
coupé stopped; a slender, black-gloved hand lowered 
the window and made a little sign of summons. Sangi- 
orgio remained alone, looking at his colleague, who ap- 
peared to be talking with great animation to the lady 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 71 


in the carriage. Presently he returned to Sangiorgio, 
saying: 

“Would you like to be presented to the Countess 
Fiammanti?” 

Sangiorgio had no time either to reply or to resist; he 
found himself before the door of the coupé. 

“Countess, the Honorable Sangiorgio, member from 
Tito—a Southerner and a new recruit.” 

The handsome gray eyes of the Countess were alight 
with coquetry, and a slightly mocking smile rested on 
her lips. 

“T am glad, indeed, to make your acquaintance, Signor, 
because I have a veritable passion for the South. Rome 
must seem very dull to you—Naples is so gay. I adore 
it! My husband was a Neapolitan, and he taught me 
to love Naples, and everything southern. Not like your 
ugly Tuscany, Giustini, with the horrible Tuscan accent 
of the people.” 

“It is no doubt my accent, then, that always makes 
you stop me when I begin”— 

“To make love to me, eh? No, my dear, it is because 
I like you too well to let you continue. Love is a 
stale old farce, which no longer amuses anyone, and I 
have a horror of being bored. We must seem very friv- 
olous to you, Signor Sangiorgio. But we know how to 
be serious on occasion—for instance, when Giustini talks 
politics. Now, politics interests me very much—it really 
entertains me. And you, Signor?” 

“Signora, it is the only thing that interests me” the 
Southerner replied, rather rudely. 


72 MATILDE SERAO 


“I may say the same,” said the Countess, without ap- 
pearing to notice his lack of courtesy. 
“But in order to amuse oneself, one should not be too 


’ 


much absorbed by politics,” murmured Sangiorgio, with 
so peculiar an intonation that the young woman allowed 
her eyes to rest upon his for a moment. 

“Then, my dear Giustini, I shall see you again within 
two hours. Signor Sangiorgio, I am at home every other 
evening in the month—the third, the fifth, the seventh, 
and so on. I won’t compel you to drink tea, but you 
may smoke. I sing fairly well. There will not be any 
other women. 4 rivedercif’ 

The carriage proceeded on the road toward Rome. 

“Who is that lady?” Sangiorgio inquired. 

“Why do you wish to know? Does she please you?” 

“Yes, I rather admire her.” 

“Oh, very well, then accept her invitation; you will 
be amused. She is attractive, but not beautiful. Some- 
times she is irresistible. She sings admirably, and is 
often very witty, though she talks too much. But she 
is a good sort.” 

“But what kind of woman is she?” Sangiorgio per- 
sisted. 

“Oh—really, I don’t know,” the other replied, with a 
shrug. “I never have been able to become her lover.” 

“What is her name?” 

. “Elena Fiammanti.” 

They had arrived at the square before the Academy of 
Spain, deserted in the winter twilight. 

“Behold Rome!” said Giustini, standing at the parapet 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 73 


of the terrace. “Have you ever looked at it from this 
spot?” 

“No, never.” 

“Rome is great—very great,” said the Tuscan deputy, 
with an accent of melancholy. 

“One would say she sleeps,” said Sangiorgio. 

“Sleeps? Do not deceive yourself! She does not 
sleep—she dreams and watches. Look down there—far 
to the left—at that great dome that seems to be effaced 
against the white clouds. Do you see it? That is Saint 
Peter’s. Near Saint Peter’s are several edifices surround- 
ed by gardens. From this point they look small and 
plunged in profound darkness; that is the Vatican, and 
therein dwells the Pope. He is more than eighty years 
old, he is ill, Death hovers near him, but what matters 
that? Heis strong! One half of the people in the world 
believe in him, prostrate themselves before him; implore 
him, and die in his name. Sangiorgio, do you believe in 
God?” 

“No!” 

“Nor I. But the Pope is strong. His adherents are 
the unfortunate, the weak, the humble, the poor, the 
young people, and the women—the women who transmit, 
from mother to daughter, not religion but the religious 
cult. It seems to you that all is sleeping, down there 
on the bank of the river, in the great palace decorated 
by Michelangelo? Undeceive yourself! That colossal 
edifice teems with a population of cardinals, bishops, 
curates, priests, monks, seminarists—ecclesiastics who 
by no means confine themselves to celebrating masses, 


74 MATILDE SERAO 


praying and singing. They go into many houses, pene- 
trate into many families, teach in the schools; they love, 
hate, struggle, live for themselves, for the Church, and 
for the Pope. No one can realize their strength, their 
number, and their power.” 

“But Rome itself is atheistical,” interrupted San- 
giorgio. 

“I am not talking of belief or of disbelief. Do you 
think that I am glorifying religion? The day of great 
convictions is past, but human interest is keener than 
ever. We dwell beside a vast mystery which works its 
will in darkness, but of which we do not even suspect 
the existence.” 

Giustini was silent a moment, absorbed in contem- 
plation of the great city, which was rapidly being effaced 
in the shadows of evening. Sangiorgio listened, dis- 
turbed, conscious of a throbbing of the heart, as at the 
approach of a great danger. 

“Over there is the Quirinal,” Giustini continued. “Yes 
—over there—under that rosy light. There are the King, 
the Queen, and the Court. Four balls, eight official re- 
ceptions, forty dinners, four concerts, thirty private re- 
ceptions, four hundred presentations, diamonds at the 
throat, decorations on the breast, plumes in the hair, 
bare shoulders, quadrilles of honor—but there is some- 
thing besides all that vain show. That beautiful Queen, 
who greets with the same amiability her friends and her 
enemies, is a woman who feels, who thinks, who knows, 
who listens. The King, who bears so heavy a burden, 
sworn to perpetual obedience, has he not, too, a con- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 75 


science, an ideal, a will of his own? And the people of 
the Court, military or civil, ladies-of-honor or diplomat- 
ists, majordomos or valets—all are occupied with their 
own concerns, their own struggles. They love, they 
hate, they have their own ambitions. All those women 
have certain desires, jealousies, regrets, perhaps suf- 
ferings.” 

As Giustini spoke, he scratched his finger-tips nervous- 
ly along the top railing of the parapet, and threw pebbles 
and bits of rubbish out into the air. Sangiorgio followed 
attentively the movement of those thin brown hands, 
with their distended veins. 

“From this point we cannot see Montecitorio,” the 
Tuscan deputy went on, in a hard voice; “but I tell you 
it is a veritable furnace, wherein we are all slowly con- 
sumed—an even temperature such as silkworms are 
raised in, which weakens the will and engenders timidity. 
All the inhabitants of that palace of cards excite them- 
selves, struggle, cry out, argue for a law, a railway, or 
a bridge. They wish to become Ministers, to wear a 
uniform, to turn their former friends into enemies, to 
be called rascals and robbers by such newspapers as have 
not been bribed, and other similar pleasant experiences. 
Some poor fellows even long to be prefects! Once I was 
one of them! Oh, that terrible furnace which desiccates 
the heart, burns it up with vain desires, and takes away 
all independence of will!” 

By this time the horizon had turned to a delicate 
gray; the shadows of night floated above the city like 
a dusky veil. 


76 MATILDE SERAO 


Sangiorgio felt strangely disturbed; the Tuscan deputy 
appeared to him uglier and more disagreeable than ever, 
with that sneering grin which revealed two rows of yel- 
low teeth. 

“How quiet the city is!” Giustini resumed. “One 
would say that while sleeping it rejoices in the Christ- 
mas-tide. Well, such is not the fact. Up there, under 
the great trees of the Pincio and of the Villa Medici, the 
painters laugh, sing, amuse themselves, discuss heresies 
as they would discuss matters of art, and paint bad pic- 
tures. Over there, where you see that great white spot, 
are the new quarters. Have you ever been there? You 
would find sixty thousand workingmen, with their fami- 
lies, servants, dogs and cats—an encampment of hungry 
and disarmed barbarians, hating Rome, which they can- 
not comprehend. Their women can only bear ugly 
children and cook their miserable meals—pale women, 
with flat bosoms and red hands. These poor wretches 
have been celebrating Christmas in their duress, like 
true barbarians, dull and miserable, complaining of the 
government, of their servants, of Rome, the butcher and 
the baker. And the Romans—the true Romans—who 
put the adjective Roman to their names, like a title of 
nobility, who eat dumplings on Thursday, tripe on Sun- 
day, and lamb every day, who like light wines and 
fireworks at Saint Angelo, who are proud of their cau 
Marcienne and allow vermin to swarm in their ruinous 
old houses—these Romans, sceptical, intellectual, calm 
and industrious, excellent husbards and passionate lov- 
ers, assuredly they do not sleep. And above all, the 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 77 


women—Neapolitan or Roman, Italian or foreign—who 
walk, chatter, gossip, love or permit love, they are not 
sleeping, either. The women never sleep—even at night! 
Rome is ever vigilant, though she may seem somnolent; 
she is so great, so complex, so mystical and so power- 
ful that, as I lean here gazing upon her, she terrifies me 
as might some infernal machine! 

“And what dreams she encourages, deceiver that she 
is! She receives you with the affected severity of an 
amorous mistress who awaits you; you open your arms, 
you smile! I, too, dreamed of her love. And after years 
of torment, of suffering, of disillusions, I learned many 
things: that I was too frank to succeed in politics, too 
ugly to please the women, too feeble to devote myself 
to science, too abrupt to succeed in diplomacy. I learned 
also this truth, as glaring as the sun: Rome yields her- 
self to no one!” 

“And what must one do?” Sangiorgio asked, almost 
trembling. 

“Conquer her!” 

And Giustini made a sweeping gesture toward the 
city. 

“Conquer her! Away with the mediocre, the cowardly, 
the weak ones, like myself! Rome neither combats you 
nor repels you; her power lies in a virtue almost divine 
—indifference! You may struggle, cry out, howl with 
grief; she will not be moved, for you are only an imper- 
ceptible atom borne along on the wings of the whirl- 
wind. She preserves the immovable calm, imperturb- 
able serenity and inexorable heart of the woman who 


78 MATILDE SERAO 


does not know how to love, but who has seen everything 
and knows everything. Her soft and feverish sirocco un- 
settles the nerves, weakens the character, arouses internal 
revolt, followed by intense dejection. But there must be 
something, some one in the world that one day will come 
to trouble that serenity. He that would conquer Rome— 
be it for a decade, a year, or a month—must dominate her, 
take her by storm, conquer her, and avenge the thousands 
of dead, wounded, and weak ones who have touched 
her walls without being able to subjugate her. Ah! 
such a man must have a heart of steel and an iron will; 
he must be young, healthy, robust, audacious, without 
weakness and without affection; he must devote himself 
absolutely to that unique ideal, that incomparable ob- 
ject. Yes, some one must conquer the superb city of 
Rome!” 
“T will!” said Francesco Sangiorgio. 


CHAPTER VI 


SANGIORGIO BEGINS THE CONFLICT 


HE Minister had occupied the floor for an hour. 

j He spoke quietly and modestly, without strain- 

ing for any oratorical effects, of various things 
in their regular order, as they presented them- 
selves to his clear, logical mind. 

His discourse was interlarded with numerous quota- 
tions of figures and technicalities. His style was me- 
thodical, and his remarks were made in a mild and some- 
what familiar tone, but were clearly audible in the si- 
lence of the Chamber. His tone was almost as confiden- 
tial as if he were speaking in a Cabinet council; the 
parliamentary accent was altogether lacking. Occasion- 
ally he drew forth a large silk handkerchief, checked in 
red and black. 

In that short, stout little man dressed in plain black, 
his placid face framed in English side-whiskers, was 
embodied the untiring worker, the model servant of the 
public, who passed twelve hours a day at his desk, 
piled high with documents—reading, writing, inspecting 
registers, advising with his chief assistants and with 
general directors. 

The members listened abstractedly. His friends were 
sure of him, and even his adversaries recognized his su- 


periority, thus rendering his triumph more compiete. 
79 


80 MATILDE SERAO 


In observing him, one could understand that his passion 
for figures prevented him from liking politics. 

The atmosphere of the hall was stifling, because of the 
waves of hot air coming from the stoves. It was one of 
the three cold days of that Roman winter, and outside 
blew a dry, sharp wind, cutting and lashing. 

The Speaker, a handsome man of fifty, had enveloped 
his legs in a blue velvet covering, lined with fur, and 
while lending half an ear to the Minister, he allowed his 
gaze to wander to the galleries, as if he sought a familiar 
face. The secretaries sat motionless at his right and left; 
Palucci, a tall fellow, strong and muscular, with a shaggy 
leonine mane, whispered to the handsome Sangarzia, 
who only nodded, being accustomed to patient silence. 
Varrini, the agreeable and intelligent Calabrian, with an 
expression that suggested a sly mouse, was writing 
letters. 

The chair of Bulgaro, the Neapolitan deputy, creaked 
under his great weight, as he moved restlessly, without 
attempting to hide the fact that he was bored. 

There was now continual going and coming of depu- 
ties making their way to talk to the Speaker, to joke 
with the secretaries, or to take a turn in the hall of the 
Lost Footsteps, returning after a time to their places. 

The Minister was speaking to-day on a very serious 
matter, and both sides, friends and adversaries, were 
obliged to listen to him. 

The members of the Right, a group of elderly depu- 
ties, appeared resigned, realizing that the victory was 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 81 


already gained, and they listened with the air of veterans 
faithful at the post of duty. 

The Extreme Left was indifferent, because it disdained 
all economic-administrative questions, and reserved its 
interruptions for political discussions pure and simple. 
One member of this small phalanx slept peacefully, his 
face hidden by one of his hands; another dozed openly, 
without pretense at merely assuming an attitude of deep 
thought. 

The members of the Center were the only ones that 
really paid attention to the speaker; those were eager 
pupils, who drank devotedly the words of wisdom of 
their master. 

But the whole Chamber, Speaker, secretaries, commit- 
tees and deputies, was influenced by the overheated 
atmosphere of that tightly-closed room, and the silence 
broken only by the calm voice of the Minister. 

There were numerous spectators that day; the cold 
without had probably induced the ladies to enter the 
gallery and rest awhile in their reserved chairs, where 
they sat with cloaks thrown open and hands tucked in 
their muffs, their cheeks rosy from the heat of the hall. 

The public gallery, too, was crowded: there were the 
weary faces of idlers, the anxious countenances of 
petitioners seeking the cousin of the friend of a deputy, 
and lazy saunterers who had gone up there merely to 
get warm. 

The press gallery was full; those representing the Op- 
position had already made a good-natured attack, and the 


Ministerialists had been preaching for a week about 
6 


82 MATILDE SERAO 


the expected address of the Minister of Finance. All 
sat calm and unruffled, save Gennaro Casale, an impetu- 
ous Neapolitan publicist, and an enemy to all govern- 
ments, who cried: 

“Gentlemen, this exposé is a ministerial disloyalty!” 

In the diplomatic gallery, leaning against the blue 
velvet railing, sat the graceful Countess Beatrice di San- 
taninfa, with a dreamy look in her large, soft eyes that 
showed she was not listening to the Minister’s remarks. 

When, at half-past four, the orator had finished his 
speech, a general movement of admiration was visible 
throughout the Chamber. The Minister quietly gathered 
his documents and placed them in a large portfolio, while 
a throng of his fellow-members hastened forward to 
shake hands with him and congratulate him. One of his 
predecessors in the Department of Finance descended 
from the benches of the Right to compliment the stout 
little man with the round head. After a moment or two 
of noise and confusion, the Speaker’s voice rose clear 
and distinct above the hum: 

“Gentlemen, I ask for silence. The Honorable San- 
giorgio has the floor.” 

“Who? Who?” was heard from all sides. 

The Speaker repeated: 

“I ask for silence. The Honorable Sangiorgio has the 
floor.” 

The eyes of all the members were turned curiously 
upon the newcomer, whom no one knew. He stood erect 
and calm, waiting for the opportunity to speak, standing 
at the head of the flight of steps, that he might be seen 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 83 


by all. He looked unusually tall, because he held him- 
self upright and his figure was robust. He was not hand- 
some, but his head showed all the characteristics of 
strength: his hair grew thick upon a low brow, his nose 
was aquiline, his moustache was heavy, and his chin was 
firm and self-willed. No one thought him insignificant. 

Among the drowsy members a new curiosity was 
awakened. Would the new member speak for or against 
the Minister? Was he one of those transparent flat- 
terers who hasten to curry favor with the Government 
as soon as they reach the city? Or was he one of those 
insolent ignoramuses who babbled ridiculous criticisms, 
only to be suppressed by the ironical murmurs of the 
assemblage? He was a Southerner and a lawyer; that 
was all that was known about him. 

The Honorable Sangiorgio began to speak slowly, in 
a virile and sonorous voice, which filled the great hall 
and drew from the auditors an involuntary sigh of 
relief. 

The ladies, who had been more than half asleep, were 
now fully awake, and they leaned forward in coquettish 
poses, to listen. The press gallery, from which the re- 
porters had been departing, gradually filled up again as 
the surprised journalists paused to listen to the new 
man. 

Sangiorgio began with an exordium full of deference 
for the illustrious man that directed Italy’s financial 
affairs, and his eulogy had no savor of flattery, but was 
kept well within the bounds of good taste. 

He made a brief allusion to his own youth, to the ob- 


84 MATILDE SERAO 


scurity of his early life, passed in a humble province, 
but with eyes ever fixed upon Rome, the compelling 
and all-powerful. He lauded politics, saying that it was 
greater than all arts, greater than science, embodying 
in itself the history of human activity, as the statesman 
embodied the supreme type of man, apostle and work- 
man, arm and head. 

A resounding Bravo! burst forth from the Right. San- 
giorgio paused only a moment. This homage to the sub- 
limity of the pursuit of politics had pleased the assem- 
bly. . 
The Minister of Finance who at first had fixed his 
penetrating, gaze upon the young deputy with interest, 
now lowered his head, feeling that he was about to be 
bored by one of those verbose oratorical efforts that 
tire and embarrass the audience. 

But Sangiorgio went on to explain that the period of 
youth passed in obscure provinces was not without val- 
ue for those that wished to know the world of to-day, 
its sufferings and its needs. The great cities were de- 
vourers of men, exhausting strength, stifling conscien- 
ces, breaking the will, drowning the memory. Who 
knew the true state of the provinces? Who cared about 
their inhabitants? It was true that once in a while some 
courageous soul would recite their woes in the Cham- 
ber; but these were isolated voices which, after making 
one despairing appeal, relapsed into silence. But that 
silence must be broken; the truth must be made known! 

The Assembly was in an indulgent mood, the natural 
reaction from the effort to comprehend the preceding 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 85 


speech. Sangiorgio’s easy eloquence afforded relaxa- 
tion to minds that had suffered a painful tension for two 
hours in attempting to follow the fantastic array of fig- 
ures in the Minister’s speech. And the contrast, at this 
twilight hour, between the darkness and chill of the 
streets and the warm, brightly lighted Chamber, put 
the audience in a comfortable frame of mind and awak- 
ened a vague sentiment of tenderness and generosity 
toward mankind. What were the crying wrongs of the 
provinces, then? 

Sangiorgio continued, saying that his whole soul had 
revolted against an apparently innocent proposal made 
by the Minister of Finance. He had declared that, 
having been obliged to give several millions to the Sec- 
retary of War, he had found it necessary to economize. 
That was well; economy was the strength of young 
nations. But he had further demanded an increased 
tax on salt. Sangiorgio said he understood perfectly 
the reasons of state that made necessary an increase 
in taxes, but that those few additional centesimi would 
greatly augment the already heavy burden of the 
peasant. 

Then the new deputy drew a vivid word-picture of 
the poverty of the villages, more terrible than that of 
the city; he cited facts, told short and pathetic stories, 
and described the collector of taxes as the spectral fore- 
runner of hunger and death. He spoke of the rough 
nakedness of the red-soiled Basilicata, its arid mountains, 
from which came continual land-slides, covering the 
meager pastures with stones; of the distance of those 


86 MATILDE SERAO 


villages from all railways, and of the unwholesome 
plains, where engineers, switch-tenders, and station- 
masters shook with malarial fever. 

When he spoke of his own country, so wretched and 
so poor, his sonorous voice grew tremulous with emo- 
tion; but he soon recovered himself and came at once 
to his point. The proposed additional tax on salt would 
be felt most seriously by the peasant class; already they 
used as little salt as possible in their soup, and a fresh 
tax would compel them to do without it altogether. 
And hygienic science, cruel but exact, had proved that 
an insufficient supply of salt was the cause of the fevers 
peculiar to Lombardy and Piedmont. 

Sangiorgio proceeded to say that in the smaller towns 
the bakers always made two qualities of bread—salted 
bread for the rich, and tasteless and insipid for the 
poor. Sometimes the baker, finding salt too dear, pass- 
es over the fresh loaf a cloth soaked in sea water! In 
some of the poorer shops they used a coarse salt, black 
and dirty, fit only for cattle. Now, with the proposed 
tax, he said, the Government would condemn a whole 
class of tax-payers to intolerable privations, perhaps to 
a physical condition of serious menace. Millions were 
lavished upon the national defense and for new armo- 
ries, but was it necessary to be so powerful when we were 
so poor? Should the Minister of War call to arms the 
young men of the Basilicata, no doubt he would expect 
them to be a band of hardy mountaineers, but he would 
find only pale weaklings, consumed by fever. Or— 
worse yet—the provinces, little by little, would become 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 87 


depopulated; the peasant, driven desperate by the aridi- 
ty of the soil, staggering under the burden of taxation, 
persecuted by man, without help or redress, will emi- 
grate to foreign shores, preferring a new country and a 
strange people, whence he will nevermore return. When 
called to arms in case of war, the sons of the Basilicata 
will not answer. Vanquished by hunger and despair, 
they will have departed to die far from their ungrateful 
country! 

The Honorable Francesco Sangiorgio returned to his 
bench and seated himself calmly. 

A burst of applause struck his hearing, but he was 
only vaguely conscious of it, or of the confused buzzing 
that follows an important speech. Close beside him was 
a group of deputies, discussing his speech and pronounc- 
ing his name in tones of respect. 

Sitting bolt upright on his bench, with eyes cast down, 
alone, with no friends to come and congratulate him 
on the success of his maiden speech, Sangiorgio yet 
heard the buzz of approval that swept through the whole 
Chamber. 

The Right felt its political pride flattered; the Ex- 
treme Left fancied it had secured a strong adherent; 
while the economists believed that in him they would 
find some vague notions of agrarian socialism. 

This speech, which at some other time might have 
passed for a mere literary effort, seemed to-day to have 
conveyed an important message. In the person of San- 
giorgio triumphed the modest and intelligent deputies 
of the Basilicata, who, by a strange fatality, had always 


88 MATILDE SERAO 


remained in the background; in him triumphed the 
lawyers, who assumed to be masters of parliamentary 
végime; and in him triumphed the South, whose success 
in oratory had always been disputed. In short, the whole 
parliamentary body, in this moment of good fellowship, 
took the new member to its heart with almost feminine 
tenderness, pleased with those rounded periods so full of 


human sympathy and of pride. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE KNIGHT MEETS A SIREN 


HE small-paned glass door of the reception- 
room on the ground floor of the House of Par- 
liament, facing on the Villa della Missione, 
opened often to admit a newcomer, and with 

him a gust of cold air. Those that were already in the 
room, standing, or lounging on the divans, had their eyes 
fixed eagerly upon the door leading to the Chamber. 

Each newcomer went straight to a large desk placed 
in the middle of the antechamber, and wrote on a bit of 
paper his own name and that of the deputy he wished 
to see. From this desk the uniformed ushers, their 
breasts covered with medals, and wearing tri-colored 
bands on their arms, carried these notes, five at a time, 
into the Chamber of Deputies. The visitor, satisfied 
for the moment at having at least sent in his name, 
would wait for a reply with an air of confident security. 
The ushers would return, still carrying the slips of paper. 
Everyone pricked up his ears. 

“Who asked for the Honorable Parodi?” cried the 
usher. 

“Tl called a voice from the crowd. 

“He is not there.” 

“Have you looked carefully?” insisted the voice, 
which came apparently from an old man with a red nose 


and thick, purple lips. 
89 


90 . MATILDE SERAO 


“The Honorable Parodi is not there,” repeated the 
usher patiently. 

“But he must be there,” muttered the other. 

“Who asked for the Honorable Sambucetto?” 

“J!” said a pale and sickly-looking young man. 

“He cannot come now.” 

“Why cannot he come?” demanded the young man, 
becoming paler. 

“That was all he wrote: he cannot come.” 

The young man went to a corner and sat down, with- 
out being able to make up his mind to depart. He 
grumbled menaces between his teeth, with a sullen air, 
and his hat drawn over his eyes. 

On all the other faces was the same mingling of anxi- 
ety, despair, and fatigue. The antechamber resembled 
the reception-room of a celebrated physician, where pa- 
tients awaiting their turn look idly about them, with in- 
difference to everything except their own infirmities. 
All moral maladies were represented in this vast cold 
hall, contracting faces, contorting mouths, wrinkling 
cheeks and causing feverish spots to appear in them. 
All these beings, each absorbed in his own suffering, 
bore the marks of grief, chagrin and pain, with all the 
melancholy symptoms of dilated nostrils, nervous move- 
ments, involuntary frowns, pinched lips, trembling 
hands, sad smiles; and in each over-excited brain was a 
fixed idea, a single thought, ever present, ever vivid. 

“Who wished to see the Honorable Morladi?” cried an 
usher. 

“Tl? responded a small, stout man. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 91 


“He begs that you will wait a short time; he is en- 
gaged with the Minister.” 

The stout man strutted about the room, his topcoat 
buttoned tight over his protruding stomach. The other 
expectant ones looked at him enviously: at least, his 
deputy had asked him to wait, while their own had sent 
them their dismissal without a word of politeness. 

The restless movement in the room continued. Those 
who had received a definite refusal stood in undecided 
fashion near the outer door, pale, and lacking courage 
to go out again into the cold; then they made a sudden 
movement of resolution and departed without looking 
back, their backs bent and cowering under their thin 
coats. 

Other persons entered; the ushers were kept busy 
going to and fro with notes, but it rained refusals. 

“Who called for the Honorable Nicotera?” 

“T!” answered a tall, thin man, with scraggy neck and 
beardless, cadaverous face. 

“He begs that you will excuse him—he cannot come.” 

The thin man bent himself almost double over the 
desk, wrote a name on a slip and handed it to another 
usher, who soon returned crying out: 

“Who asked for the Honorable Zanardelli?” 

“T!” said the skeleton-like man. 

“He cannot come; he is engaged with the Minister.” 

The persistent one, without losing patience, wrote a 
third name. 

One deputy, more obliging than his colleagues, had 
come out to see the man that had called him, and con- 


92 MATILDE SERAO 


ducted him into another room, where sat a small group 
of ladies, quietly waiting in the semi-obscurity of the 
place. The two men walked to and fro, the constituent 
speaking and gesticulating with great animation, the 
deputy listening with downcast eyes, nodding approval 
at intervals. 

In the large waiting-room, the anxious group had grown 
weary; a physical and moral lassitude discouraged them 
and destroyed their illusions. Several men, tired out, 
leaned against the wall; and the anxieties of all these 
people, borne in silence, seemed to create an atmosphere 
of oppression and sadness, and of bitter regret at having 
come to knock in vain at a door that never would open 
to them. 

The gas jets were lighted, illuminating those care- 
worn faces with cruel distinctness. Three ushers en- 
tered, and spoke simultaneously: 

“Who asked for the Honorable Sella?” 

“Who asked for the Honorable Bomba?” 

“Who asked for the Honorable Crispi?” 

“I! I! I!” breathlessly cried the skeleton-like man. 

“The Honorable Sella cannot leave the session.” 

“The Honorable Bomba is particularly engaged in the 
Chamber.” 

“The Honorable Crispi is with the Budget Com- 
mittee.” 

Quietly the petitioner wrote another name, and handed 
the paper to the usher. 

“Pardon me,” said the man, “but we cannot ask for 
the Ministers, especially the President of the Council.” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 93 


“Why not?” inquired the thin man, with surprise. 

“Tt is the rule.” 

Without apparent discouragement, the man wrote 
and handed over another name, and walked about fever- 
ishly, his tall form towering over the other persons in the 
room. Many of the lingerers had left the place, dis- 
couraged, walking with slow step and heads bowed in 
humiliation; others, following a despairing resolution, 
had gone to stand beside the gates of Montecitorio, in- 
tending to waylay the deputies as they came out of the 
Parliament House. .A few of the timid ones, however, 
remained in the anteroom, tapping their feet impatiently 
on the floor. 

A carriage drew up before the door, a footman sprang 
down, handed a note to an usher, and stood waiting, 
haughty and disdainful. 

“Who asked for the Honorable Barbarulo?” called an 
usher returning from the Chamber. 

“I!” again said the tall, thin man. 

“He is not there.” 

“Has he gone away?” 

“He has been dead three months.” 

The unhappy man was struck dumb by this last blow; 
he appeared lost in thought, but probably he could recall 
no more names, for he finally left the room with slow, 
sad step. 

Francesco Sangiorgio appeared, crossed the hall, said 
a word to the waiting footman, who accompanied him to 
the coupé, into which he jumped, still excited with the 
recent applause of his speech. 


94 MATILDE SERAO 


“Let me congratulate you sincerely on your success!” 
said the Countess Elena Fiammanti, pressing his hand. 
The carriage rolled away. In the antechamber the 
waiting ones slowly dispersed; the tired ushers rested 
on the empty chairs; two deputies chatted with the ladies. 


A fire burned brightly on the hearth, three logs having 
been laid dextrously to form a triangle. Elena Fiam- 
manti thrust away the ashes and stirred the hot coals, 
making them send up a cloud of sparks. Then she sank 
back, half reclining, in her deep chair, deftly spreading 
her billowing skirts. 

“Do you like a fire, Sangiorgio? It must be cold 
down in your Basilicata.” 

“Very cold,” he replied, seating himself in an easy > 
chair near her. “They have great chimneys in their 
houses, and on the hearths they have a large bench, 
where the father of the family sits in winter, surrounded 
by his children.” 

“TI love a fire,” she said slowly, her eyes half closed, 
as if she were fatigued, “when I have some one to en- 
joy it with me. I do not like to be alone.” 

Her hands rested upon the arms of her chair, her head 
leaned against its velvet back. The lamplight drew 
forth scintillations from her jewels; one slender little 
foot tapped the dark, rich rug. 

“You never are alone, I fancy.” 

“No, never,” she replied, frankly. “I detest solitude.” 

“Yes, certainly,” he answered, vaguely. 

“No, do not say that from mere politeness. I know 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 95 


that you men, when your minds are full of a great am- 
bition or a grand passion, always seek solitude. But we 
women never do! If any woman ever tells you she 
does, do not believe her, Sangiorgio. She is simply de- 
ceiving you. All women are like me—or rather, I am 
like all other women in that respect. People amuse me 
—even a fool interests me. To-day, at the Chamber, 
for instance”— 

“Well, for instance”’— said Sangiorgio, with a half 
smile. 

“There was a foolish creature sitting behind me in 
the Speaker’s gallery, who did nothing but chatter non- 
sense to me for an hour.” 

“Did he not bore you?” 

“No, indeed—he prevented me from hearing the 
Minister’s speech. Will you smoke?” 

“Thank you, yes.” 

She handed him a box of cigars. Her hands were 
plump, with rosy nails. 

“Do you know, you spoke exceedingly well to-day, 
Sangiorgio?” she went on, lighting a cigarette. 

Sangiorgio looked at her in silence. 

“If you doubt my sincerity, buy the newspapers to- 
morrow morning—they will be full of you.” 

“T hardly think so. The Minister is a great favorite.” 

“Bah! He is like Aristides—his fellow citizens are 
tired of always hearing him called ‘the just.’ Do not 
let that quotation alarm you, Sangiorgio; I know neither 
Greek nor Latin; that was only a recollection belonging 
to my youth, when I used to read.” 


96 MATILDE SERAO 


“Do you not read now?” inquired Sangiorgio, surprised. 

“No; books bore me now,” the lady answered. 

“They are useless, indeed.” | 

A servant entered, bearing a coffee service on a lac- 
quer tray; the tiny cups were of faintest blue trans- 
parent Japanese porcelain. 

“How many lumps?” inquired Elena, lifting the silver 
sugar-tongs. 

“Two.” 

While they sipped their coffee, Sangiorgio looked 
about the room with interest. It was not large, and it 
held no furniture of wood; all was soft, luxurious, yield- 
ing, with a profusion of easy-chairs, couches, low divans 
and taborets. Even the piano was half hidden under 
Turkish and Persian draperies, and on the wall hung a 
wonderful ancient cope of pink silk embroidered with 
gold. 

“You will see, Sangiorgio,” the lady continued, “that 
to-morrow many deputies will ask to be presented to you. 
You will taste all the sweets of success.” 

“And must I believe in the professed admiration of my 
colleagues?” 

“No, my friend, but you may as well enjoy it. Many 
good, delightful things are false in their essence. The 
part of wisdom is to profit by them as much as possible, 
to take them as we find them, and ask nothing more.” 

She cast at him a swift, furtive glance. He under- 
stood her immediately, for, even in that warm and 
luxurious boudoir, his judgment was as calm and cool as 
it had been when he addressed the Parliament. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 97 


“That philosophy applies to love also,” he murmured. 

“Particularly to love,” said Elena, quickly, letting 
dwell upon him her large gray eyes, which that evening 
had a tinge of blue. “Have you ever been in love, 
Sangiorgio?” 

“Never seriously,” he declared, “and yet”— 

“Very well! When you do love, remember what I 
have just said. We must not demand more of love than 
it can give. But men are authoritative, selfish; each 
wishes to be the only one, and then—the woman lies! 
And really, love is a very ordinary sentiment; there are 
others far nobler and stronger. Love is only an illusion, 
a passing shadow, often futile.” 

While she gave utterance to these romantic paradoxes 
with a slightly pedantic air, her rosy lips smiled tenderly, 
one white hand ruffled the little curls on her forehead, — 
the tiny foot still patted the rug, the thin black silk 
stocking allowing a glimpse of the pink skin through 
the dainty meshes of lace. Sangiorgio, now feeling much 
more at his ease, regarded her with a fatuous smile, 
which she appeared too much absorbed to notice. 

“Women like to be deceived,” she continued, throwing 
her cigarette into the fire. “Men do not know how to 
love, you will hear them cry, and they weep over it. 
And above all things they demand from them fidelity! 
As if men could be faithful, with their nerves, tem- 
perament, imagination! A hundred thousand lire to any 
one who will show me a man and a woman really faith- 
ful, absolutely faithful!” 

By this time Sangiorgio had taken her little hand in 

7 


98 MATILDE SERAO 


his; he softly stroked her taper fingers, sparkling with 
diamonds and milky opals. Presently he bent his head 
and kissed the round, dimpled wrist. He was no longer 
in awe of her; he felt as if he had known her a long time, 
and, while he was speculating about her, certain auda- 
cious ideas came into his mind. 

Notwithstanding his outward calmness, his nerves 
were still stirred by his success of that day, and now in 
that perfumed boudoir the delicate intoxication was aug- 
mented by this alluring woman, whose apparent para- 
doxes were easy to read, and who plainly invited him to 
woo her. 

To assert his growing feeling of intimacy, he would 
have liked to throw himself upon a sofa, to lie at full 
length on the rug, to toss matches into the fire, in short, 
to commit all the silly impertinences of an ill-bred boy. 
He resisted these temptations by a strong effort, but he 
felt himself weak before that ironic mouth, those quiv- 
ering nostrils, and that straight, aquiline nose—the 
mingled aristocracy and coarseness of that face. 

While caressing her hand, he had playfully drawn 
off all her rings, and now shook them lightly in the hol- 
low of his large hand, his mind possessed with an in- 
sane desire to draw off one of her slippers, so that he 
might see her little foot curling itself up shyly in its 
black silk stocking. 

“Of course, there are virtuous women,” continued Ele- 
na. “No one denies that. There are cold women, who 
do not know how to love. I know some—not very many, 
but a few. Naturally, in that case, no great effort is 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 99 


necessary to remain faithful. Now, Donna Angelica, the 
wife of the Minister, is absolutely virtuous. Do you 
know her, Sangiorgio?” 

“Yes—that is—by sight!” he murmured. He felt em- 
barrassed, and held the rings awkwardly, not knowing 
what to do with them; at last he put them on a table, 
without venturing to replace them on the young woman’s 
fingers. 

The cloud that had floated in his brain was suddenly 
dissipated, and he felt ashamed of the childish things 
he had wished to do. In a moment more, he would have 
asked Elena’s pardon, but she appeared unaware of his 
embarrassment. Nervously she smoothed her silken 
draperies with a mechanical movement, drawing out a 
long fold toward Sangiorgio as if she wished him to 
take it in his hand. 

“Well, what do you say to my sermon?” she inquired, 
smilingly. 

“I am an ardent disciple; I do not understand it all, 
but I admire it.” Sangiorgio replied, now completely 
master of himself. 

“T will give you some music—you will understand 
that,” said the lady, rising suddenly. “You may smoke, 
sleep, or read; if you do not listen to the music I shall 
not care. I like to make music for myself.” 

The next moment a delicate yet penetrating voice be- 
gan the first strains of Tosti’s Ave Maria. 

Sangiorgio was thrilled and surprised. Indeed, Ele- 
na’s voice was always a surprise, because it did not seem 
to belong to her; or perhaps one should say it completed 


100 MATILDE SERAO 


her and revealed her true character. She had a rich, 
warm contralto, at times a trifle harsh, but with passion- 
ate accents, amorous quivers, cries of jealousy, violent 
ecstasy. Then came tones of strange softness and ex- 
traordinary purity, of a tenderness almost virginal. She 
revealed a delicacy of ideal, a harmonious transfigura- 
tion of ardor, an indefinite, vague, but exquisite mystery. 

She sang with her head slightly raised; her languorous 
eyelids cast shadows on her cheeks, her lips were half 
open, and her white throat swelled under her jeweled 
collar. Her agile hands flew over the keyboard, light as 
two white doves. A new serenity, a tender peace filled 
the boudoir, a soothing caress that seemed to touch the 
furniture and the ornaments, tempering their former 
seductiveness. She sang a melancholy romance by 
Schumann, which sounded like a mingling of sighs and 


tears: 
Va, prends courage, ceur souffrant! 


At the end of this triumphal day, Sangiorgio listened 
pensively, his heart filled with a new-and sad emotion. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE ADVENTURE OF THE MASKED BALL 


wee HE night of the last masked ball of the season 

J had come. It was held at the Theater Cos- 

tanzi. All the unimportant people, for whom 

one masked ball was the extent of their season’s 

gayety—students who had still ten lire in pocket, clerks, 

delighted to indulge in this mild orgy; book-keepers, 

whose ledgers would be closed until the next day; young 

lawyers, budding physicians—all these, and many others, 

passed through the grand entrance about six o’clock 
in the evening. 

In the corridor on the ground floor the ushers were 
rushing here and there, almost losing their heads with 
trying to check the topcoats and mantles, to hang up in 
safety the accumulating veils, scarfs, canes, and shawls. 
The crowd launched itself into the vast ballroom, and 
began that circular promenade characteristic of all Ro- 
man public balls. 

A rollicking band of twenty-four young men, disguised 
as polichinelles, raced about hither and thither, each hold- 
ing fast the tail of the white blouse of the man in front 
of him, and all laughing and singing at the top of their 
lungs. 

In the middle of the hall, in a wide, cleared space, 


stood a group of youths and girls, the latter dressed in 
101 


102 MATILDE SERAO 


short white blouses, held in at the waist by pink or 
blue sashes; each girl wore a baby’s white cap, and car- 
ried an infant’s rattle in her hand. They remained close 
to their youthful escorts all the evening. 

The orchestra was placed on a small stage, behind a 
playing fountain, and as soon as the first strains of a 
waltz or a polka were heard, these couples began to 
whirl with a business-like gravity, marking the time 
with great precision, avoiding collisions, dancing consci- 
entiously. 

When the music stopped, they ceased dancing abrupt- 
ly, as if surprised; each cavalier offered an arm to his 
partner, and without exchanging a word, these young 
couples resumed the promenade with an air of great dig- 
nity. At the next call of the music, they began a new 
dance, with an unflagging zeal that drew forth admira- 
tion from the ranks of spectators, who stood three deep 
around the dancers. 

Three girls, attired in black, with white aprons and 
enormous muslin caps, walked about arm-in-arm, waving 
their black-gloved hands and coquetting with everyone. 

In a box on the second tier sat a person in a red 
domino, with an odd head-dress like a cock’s comb. She 
was alone, and sat motionless, her red arms leaning on 
the velvet railing. Other dominoes, elegant and mys- 
terious, appeared here and there; one was strikingly tall 
and graceful, in pale blue satin, accompanied by a friend 
in black satin, whose face was hidden under a thick 
lace veil. 

One opulent lady permitted her flowing domino to 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 103 


open and reveal a rich ball gown of cream-colored bro- 
cade embroidered with gold. 

But the majority of the merrymakers were good, 
middle-class families—fathers, mothers, sons, and daugh- 
ters, who had come there dressed as for an evening 
promenade, in dark gowns, simple hats and thread 
gloves. These excellent people felt perfectly at home, 
and stopped to chat and jest with one another with the 
good humor and equanimity of the Roman people, who 
are easily entertained. 

The crowd was densest in front of the boxes occupied 
by the Hunt Club, whose members, in full evening dress, 
with white cravats, called out jests and questions to the 
passing masks, and kept up a ceaseless hubbub. 

When Francesco Sangiorgio appeared in the hall it 
was half-past eleven. A feminine form, attired in Turk- 
ish draperies, her head and face wrapped in a white veil, 
glided to his side. A soft voice said: 

“Ah, here is the charming Sangiorgio! Why do you 
look so sad, Signor?” 

“Because I do not recognize you, dear lady!” 

“You do not know me—you must not know me—you 
never will know me! I know why you are sad. Let 
me whisper it in your ear: you are in love!” 

“Yes, with you, my charmer!” 

“What nonsense! Ha! Ha! You are altogether too 
gallant, Signor! That is not the custom here. Be rude 
and brusque—your reputation demands it. But hark!— 
Ferrante is no longer a candidate for the Budget Com- 


104 MATILDE SERAO 


mittee. You are being discussed for membership. Be 
prudent! I warn you!” 

Sangiorgio stood still, astonished. The mask slipped 
away, and disappeared in the crowd. 

The news surprised him greatly; he had not expected 
this. So far, his famous speech had brought no par- 
ticular results. He had had a flattering interview with 
one of the leaders of the Right, Mario Tasca, the cold 
and polished orator, of moderate socialistic views, the 
politician who had caused his own party to lose because 
‘of his indecision at a critical period. 

The new deputy had met other dignitaries and had > 
been politely greeted and congratulated; the Minister, in 
replying to Sangiorgio’s plea, had rendered all honor to 
his adversary, but had insisted on presenting his mo- 
tion, and the Chamber had voted in favor of it by a large 
majority. No one ever remembered his speech now, 
apparently. The Honorable Dalma, with his poetic par- 
liamentary cynicism, had said to him: “In politics all 
is soon forgotten.” 

In the vestibule, many couples were strolling about, 
arm-in-arm, chatting and laughing; young men were 
making important financial combinations in organizing 
supper parties; solitary dominoes wandered to and fro, 
awaiting the chimerical unknown. 

Near the entrance Sangiorgio ran into the Honorable 
Gulli-Pausania. The Sicilian deputy was leaning against 
the wall, waiting for some one, correct and distinguished 
in his evening clothes, his pointed chestnut beard, and 
an opera hat, which hid a premature baldness. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 105 


“Ah, my dear Sangiorgio!” said Gulli, with a marked 
Sicilian accent; “What, alone; alone at a masked ball?” 

“Yes, alone. I expect no one, and no one expects me. 
But I fancy my honorable colleague, Gulli-Pausania, can- 
not say the same.” 

“What do you suppose?” laughed Gulli; “we pass our 
lives in waiting for some one.” 

“Not always the same person, I hope.” 

“Oh, no! That would be too serious a business. Any 
news from the House?” 

“None, my dear colleague. Amuse yourself well!” 

“Many thanks!” said Gulli-Pausania, smiling softly. 

Sangiorgio made his way to the ballroom, and stood 
dazzled at the spectacle. 

The great hall, with its three rows of boxes, its gal- 
leries and amphitheater, was brilliantly illuminated, its 
white and gold decoration bathed in a soft haze. Before 
the stage, the fountain’s high-springing jets were rose- 
tinted by means of an electric light. 

The throng was already dense, and at every moment 
new arrivals came from the cafés, balls, and other mas- 
querades; it was difficult to walk, and impossible to stand 
still. 

At first Sangiorgio could see only the back of a large 
man in front of him; at the right the red ear of a nurse, 
whose mask must have been too tight; at his left the 
sharp profile of a thin and pale young girl. The large 
man stared persistently at the occupants of the boxes. 

Presently Sangiorgio managed to press forward a 
little till he reached the gentleman’s side, and recognized 


106 ~ MATILDE SERAO 


the Honorable Prince di Smirnio, who bore the title of 
Most Serene Highness, and was one of the wealthiest 
noblemen in Rome. 

“Good evening, my dear colleague,” said the Prince, 
in the peculiar drawl he always affected. “Is this your 
first visit to this gateway of perdition? I suppose that 
when you lived in the country you heard that we men 
of the city led wild lives, eh? Well, now you can see 
for yourself that we occupy ourselves in merely taking a 
turn about the place, with the most innocent intentions. 
Personally, I am looking for my wife and her sister in 
one of these boxes. Then, too, I like to mingle with a 
crowd, just to listen and learn. Everyone knows how 
democratic Iam. I have a taste that way. You are in- 
terested in politics, are you not, my dear colleague? 
It is not a very amusing game—I had enough of it long 
ago. I belong to the party of Emilio Castelar. the Span- 
ish Republican. Does that surprise you?” 

Francesco Sangiorgio smiled, but made no reply, for 
he knew that the Prince preferred to talk without in- 
terruption. | 

“Ah, there is my wife!” he said suddenly. “Who is 
in that box next to hers? Oh, it is the Minister of For- 
eign Affairs, with his two daughters. Good night, my 
dear colleague.” 

Sangiorgio bowed, and turned away to make the grand 
tour of the hall, first approaching the stage, on which, 
at each side, were ranged little tables, surrounded by 
respectable families regaling themselves with lemonade, 
and inseparable couples, rather fond of drinking bock 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 107 


beer. The deputy reached the fountain, now of an ex- 
quisite violet hue; he passed between it and the great 
mirror back of it and paused at the gallery occupied by 
the orchestra. 

At that instant the musicians burst out with a pop- 
ular mazurka. There was a general movement of the 
crowd toward the central space, in order to see the 
dancing. The Honorable Schuffer, sitting alone at a 
small table, with a glass of beer before him, fixed his 
little twinkling eyes on the gay maskers with a mocking 
smile. 

“Oh, my dear friend,” said he, with his soft Venetian 
accent, “will you take a glass of beer with me? But you 
are a Neapolitan—perhaps you do not like beer.” 

“I thank you a thousand times, Signor! I will not 
take anything just now, for I have only just come.” 

“T have been here an hour, being amused with having 
my sides punched, my feet trodden, and hustled about 
in every direction. I took refuge here in order to be 
quiet—you know that I am likely to get into trouble.” 

Sangiorgio smiled; the Honorable Schuffer, notwith- 
standing his mild air, had already had several quarrels. 
By a strange fatality, he could go nowhere without get- 
ting into some dispute or imbroglio, so that the Cham- 
ber had been obliged, more than once, to give legal 
authorization for actions against him. 

“T learned to drink beer in Japan,” he went on. “Ah, 
that is a great country, my dear fellow! I never had 
trouble with anyone there, I assure you.” He added in 
a lower tone, as if struck by a sudden thought: “You 


108 MATILDE SERAO — 


are Ministerial—shall you vote those millions for the 
Minister of War?” 

“Shall you?” Sangiorgio rejoined quickly. 

“Shall I?” Schuffer replied, a little disconcerted; 
“well, I don’t know just yet. We must talk it over, 
and come to an understanding. It is a serious matter. 
War devours the substance of a nation.” 

“I ask nothing better; we will discuss this again. 
Good night, my friend!” 

The reckless strains of the mazurka had lent new ani- 
mation to the ball. Everyone was dancing. A little 
woman, dressed as an officer of bersaglieri, with her hat 
tilted over one ear, her bare arms emerging from the 
gold fringe of her epaulettes, and wearing tight knee 
breeches, danced with a pretty girl disguised as 
Mephistopheles. Both were is serious as possible, and 
drove away anyone that tried to separate them. 

The boxes had now filled up with ladies in full eve- 
ning toilet; in one of the proscenium boxes sat the deli- 
cate Florentine beauty, Elsa Bellini, wife of the actor 
Novelli, and the luxurient blond tresses of Lalla Ter- 
ziani. Their companions were the little Prince de 
Nerola, the new deputy from the Abruzzi, and their 
husbands, Novelli and Terziani. 

“Sangiorgio!” called the little Prince, leaning over the 
railing of the box. 

“Well, my dear colleague?” said Sangiorgio, looking 
up at the Prince. 

“If you see Sangarzia anywhere, will you be kind 
enough to tell him Iam here. By the way, do you know 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 109 


who will be elected to fill the vacancy on the Budget 
Committee, the day after to-morrow?” 

“Ferrante, naturally.” 

“T think not!” said the Prince, smiling maliciously. 

As Sangiorgio moved away, he caught the words “Clev- 
er young fellow”—“Brilliant Southerner.” 

He set out to find Sangarzia in one of the boxes. 

In a box on the first tier sat the two sisters Ac- 
quaviva, one the wife of the Marchese di Santa Marta, 
the other married to the Count Lapucci. 

The Countess was a vivacious brunette, with brilliant 
eyes and ripe red lips, a striking contrast to her husband, 
who was tall, pale, taciturn, and thoughtful. He was 
called haughty, in spite of his socialistic opinions. The 
Santa Martas were entirely different; he was blond and 
fair, with sleepy eyes and pink cheeks; she had a mass 
of curls and a frank, child-like expression. The Countess 
Lapucci laughed; the Marchesa di Santa Marta smiled; 
the Count Lapucci scanned the passing faces, with hands 
thrust in his pockets; and Santa Marta talked loudly 
with the Honorable Melillo, a confirmed bachelor, al- 
though a devoted admirer of the fair sex. He made a 
friendly sign to Sangiorgio, and the young deputy fan- 
cied he might be speaking favorably of him to Santa 
Marta. 

In the adjoining box, the wife of the Secretary-General 
of Finance arrived from a reception at the Quirinal. She 
was a slender, supple Piedmontese, with an interesting 
though pale face. Her neck was covered with jewels, 
and she drew off her long gloves with a quick, nervous 


110 MATILDE SERAO 


movement. The Honorable Pasta, the celebrated law- 
yer, with shaven lips and gray side-whiskers, murmured 
in her ear little stories that made her smile. The Hon- 
orable Cimbeo, the political journalist, gazed absently 
through his spectacles, while his cravat crept up his 
collar till it nearly touched his ears. The Secretary- 
General, a short, bald man, with a bristling moustache, 
preserved a solemn, unbroken silence. When Sangiorgio 
passed, he bowed impressively, with an air of sympathy 
and gratitude, almost of affection—the salute he reserved 
for those who pleased him by attacking the Minister 
of Finance. 

“Where can Sangarzia be?” thought Sangiorgio, mak- 
ing his way with difficulty through the crowd. 

The Baroness Noir was enthroned in her box, her ser- 
pentine form arrayed in a strange robe of changeable 
silk, embroidered with tulips and scarlet poppies. Her 
husband remained in the rear of the box, with the grav- 
ity of a diplomatist awaiting an appointment; but the 
Honorable di San Demetrio, a future Minister of Foreign 
Affairs, occupied a seat well toward the front, in a strong 
light. Beside him sat the Honorable di Campofranco, 
a cold and stiff Sicilian, son of the most influential 
woman politician of the time, the Princess di Campo- 
franco. 

The Honorable di San Demetrio was speaking, per- 
haps explaining some points of his speech on the Budget, 
and the little Baroness listened with interest, sometimes 
giving his fingers a light tap with her fan. 

Sangiorgio halted for a moment before this box. He 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 111 


felt tired; the lights dazzled him, and the heavy, per- 
fumed air was oppressive. 

“Sangiorgio!” called San Demetrio from the box. 

He started, as if from a dream. 

“Do you know whether the Honorable Massari is 
registered to speak in the discussion on the Budget?” 

“No, he is not registered.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Quite sure.” 

“Thank you—a thousand pardons for troubling you!” 

He resumed his seat, comforted by the thought that 
he would have one adversary the less to answer. San- 
giorgio still leaned against the wall, closing his eyes to 
shut out the glare of light. 

Seymour and Marchetti, arm-in-arm, stopped near 
him; the two apostles of social science—Seymour, dark 
and thin, with an energetic British chin, Marchetti with 
rosy face, chestnut hair, and bright eyes. 

“Are you bored, Sangiorgio?” Seymour asked. 

“A little. I am tired.” 

“Were you at the session of the committee this eve- 
ning?” 

“No. What was done there?” 

“Nothing. No one does any work. Why don’t you 
have your speech printed, Sangiorgio?” 

“What would be the use?” said Francesco, with an 
accent of resignation. “I shall return to the charge, 
however—when they begin to discuss the Agricultural 
Budget,” he added, standing erect, as if revived. 

The orchestra played the prelude to Strauss’s waltz, 


112 MATILDE SERAO 


Le Salut & La Joie; the assembly thronged the corridors; 
the deputies separated; Sangiorgio remained alone. 

The ladies in the boxes gazed down at the ballroom 
floor, envying the little dancers enjoying themselves be- 
low, while social etiquette kept them in the boxes, re- 
gretfully listening to the entrancing strains of the music. 

A fresh group entered—several ladies who had been 
at a ball given by the Baron Huffer; they considerately 
remained standing a few minutes, that all might see the 
splendor of their gowns. 

The little Prince di Nerola was now in the box of 
his cousin, the Countess di Genzano, an imposing Titian 
blonde; behind them showed the classic and noble pro- 
file of the Minister of Justice, the inflexible and gallant 
magistrate, as unchanging in his inflexibility as in his 
gallantry. 

Sangiorgio shook off the fit of dullness into which he 
had fallen, and resumed his search for Sangarzia. He 
looked intently into one box after another, and at last 
discovered him on the second tier, near the royal box. 
Near the railing sat a woman of strikingly elegant ap- 
pearance, in a domino of black satin, her head covered 
with a black lace mantilla caught up with a cluster of red 
carnations. Next to her was the Honorable Valitutti, 
a rich Calabrian, with the olive skin and jet-black beard 
of an Arab. Toward the middle of the box sat the Hon-. 
orable Fraccacreta, one of the richest cereal merchants 
from the Puglia district; next to him was the Honorable 
Sangarzia, the sympathetic Sicilian, the accomplished 
swordsman, the gallant gentleman beloved by all. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 113 


“TI wonder who is the fair unknown,” murmured San- 
giorgio, as he mounted to the second tier. 

A lady, vexed at not being allowed to dance, was 
sweeping down the stairway in very bad humor, on the 
way to her carriage. She let the train of her gown drag 
its full length over the floor, and kept her lips pressed 
together with the sulky expression of a woman to whom 
something has been denied. She was followed by her 
husband and her favored admirer, each wearing the re- 
lieved look of men who have got through with a boring 
evening and hope soon to be able to go to bed. 

Five black dominoes who had passed the whole even- 
ing in a box without speaking or moving, like a group 
of conspirators, now descended the stairs on the arms of 
five young men, also silent; the lugubrious little proces- 
sion might have been on the way to a funeral banquet. 
Behind them came the Honorable Carrusio, a little dep- 
uty with a head as smooth as a billiard-ball, and an 
absurdly long black imperial, which gave a grotesque ap- 
pearance to his round and somewhat boyish face. 

“Excuse me, my dear colleague,” said he, stopping 
Sangiorgio on the stairs; “Pardon my interruption, but I 
am very much disturbed. A relative of mine from the 
country made me come to this affair—something that I 
do not care for in the least. You can fancy how it bores 
me! I am so disturbed at the news I have heard—they 
say that the Prime Minister is very ill. Is it true?” 

“Not at all, not at all!” Sangiorgio replied, smiling. 
“Only a little touch of gout, I believe.” 


“Are you sure of that?” 
8 


114 MATILDE SERAO 


“I went to inquire for him in person, my dear Signor.” 

“Ah, I thank you, my dear colleague! I was fortunate 
to meet you—you have relieved me from a great anxiety. 
If the Prime Minister were really seriously ill, only fancy 
what trouble it would cause! Suppose he should die— 
what would happen?” 

“Heaven forbid!” said Sangiorgio, still smiling at the 
earnestness of the little man. 

“Yours to command, dear colleague! I feel quite re- 
assured—a thousand thanks! Call upon me at any time 
—I am always at your service. I could not have met 
you more opportunely. Good night!” 

“Good night! Rest assured—the Prime Minister will 
be quite well to-morrow.” 

“Thank you again—thank you!” 

Sangiorgio tapped gently at the door of Number 15. 
Fraccacreta’s voice said, “Come in!” 

Sangiorgio half opened the door, saying: 

“Pardon me, gentlemen! I am searching for the Hon- 
orable Sangarzia.” 

“Here I am, Signor.” 

The two men left the box; the black domino with the 
carnations did not even turn her head. 

“The Prince di Nerola wishes to speak to you, my 
dear colleague.” 

“Oh, Sangiorgio, you and the Prince could not have 
done me a greater service! I really did not know how 
to get away gracefully. Where is he?” 

“In the Countess di Genzano’s box, on the first tier.” 

“Let us go at once.” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 115 


Sangarzia reéntered the box, took his topcoat, bowed 
to the lady, shook hands with the two men, and followed 
Sangiorgio down the stairs. 

“What luck!” he said. “The lady was very much 
bored, and wished to dance. Will you come into the 
Countess’s box with me?” 

“I do not know her.” 

At that moment a feminine form slipped out of a box 
on the first tier, attired in a Turkish costume, with head 
and face concealed beneath the folds of a white veil. 
She approached Sangiorgio. 

“Come with me!” she murmured to him caressingly. 

“No need to wish you good luck!” whispered Sangar- 
zia laughingly to Francesco, as he left him. 

“Come with me!” repeated the veiled lady, laying her 
hand on Sangiorgio’s arm. 

It was almost three o’clock in the morning. The 
dressing-rooms were full of people getting into their top- 
coats or wrapping themselves in mantles, with the weary 
air of mountebanks who, having finished their tumbling 
in the public square, put on old coats over their spangled 
satin jackets. 

“Come quickly!” said the lady impatiently, as San- 
giorgio was putting on his topcoat. 

When they reached the street, she found her own car- 
riage at once, and, with an apprehensive glance to right 
and left, jumped in, almost dragging the deputy in after 
her. 

“Home!” she said to the coachman. 

As soon as she was fairly seated, she drew down the 


116 'MATILDE SERAO 


blinds, took off her veil and threw it on the seat in front 
of her; she then removed her Oriental robe, pulling out 
pins and tearing the material, and wrapped herself in a 
great fur cloak which she took from the opposite seat. 
Sangiorgio assisted her in silence. She gazed out at the 
street a moment. 


“Ah, the moon is shining!” she murmured sweetly. 

She tapped on the little window to give an order to the 
coachman, who drew up immediately in the Piazza Bar- 
berini. She descended quickly, resuming her white veil. 

“Go home!” said she to the coachman. “Tell Carolina 
she may go to bed now. I have my keys.” 

They were left alone. The fountain showered bril- 
liant jewels in the silvery light of the moon. 

“Shall we walk a little?” said the lady. “It was stifling 
in that ballroom.” 

Sangiorgio offered his arm, resolved to show no sur- 
prise, whatever happened. They turned into the Via 
Sistina, that great thoroughfare so aristocratic by day 
and so gloomy at night. 

The lady drew closer to her escort, as if both cold 
and timid, as if she were pretending to be a little creature 
seeking his protection, although she was a commanding 
figure in her long black mantle, her eyes sparkling be- 
hind the thin white veil. Those eyes had a strong mag- 
netic fascination. 

Again Sangiorgio felt himself under the same spell she 
had cast over him in her boudoir, when she had mocked 
at love. But this time the charm was deeper and keener, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME Wb 


with no mingling of sweetness; rather, it was a posses- 
sion, an inebriation. 

“How still it is!” she said in a trembling whisper, 
which stirred Sangiorgio’s being to the heart. 

“Speak again!” he murmured; “say something more!” 

“What shall I say?” the lady whispered again, leaning 
against his shoulder. 

“Whatever you will—your voice is so sweet!” 

Elena Fiammanti made no reply. They had wandered 
to the square before the Trinita de’ Monti. The obelisk 
towered high in the bright moonlight, throwing a long 
shadow across the facade of the church. 

They leaned on the parapet overlooking the terrace, 
and contemplated Rome bathed in a luminous haze 
which appeared to be a continuation of the sky, a veil 
descending from heaven, enveloping houses, steeples, 
domes, and all the wondrous city. 

“We can see nothing clearly. What a pity!” said 
Elena. 

Again she took the arm of her companion, and recon- 
ducted him to the little stairway of the Trinita, near the 
entrance to the convent. 

“Shall we go in?” she asked, pointing to the iron chain 
across the door. “We are two frozen pilgrims begging 
for hospitality.” 

She laughed, showing the beautiful white teeth that 
made her mouth irresistible. She never smiled, but al- 
ways laughed. 

From the point where they now stood, nothing was 
visible in front of them but that limitless, milky-white, 


118 MATILDE SERAO 


silvery haze. At the right, they perceived the gas-jets 
still burning in the Via Condotti; below them extended 
the Piazza di Spagna, with all its imposing architectural 
beauties. 

“Come, let us go,” said Elena. 

He allowed her to guide him; this first romantic ad- 
venture gave him inexpressible delight. This woman—a 
lady, notwithstanding her audacity and the lightness of 
her behavior—embodied all the ideals and desires of a 
strong provincial man, dreamy, imaginative, but chaste 
-and serious. This was a real love romance, into which 
he had been led by this perfumed beauty, wrapped in 
furs, with sparkling diamonds, who allured him by her 
personal charm, and by all that she represented. In the 
overthrow of his will power and the intoxication of the 
moment, he said to himself that this was only a passing 
caprice, and his moral resolution weakened under the new 
triumph of his vanity; charmed and flattered, he yielded 
to the delight of his conquest. 

They descended the steps in the opalescent moonlight 
that bathed the stones of the ancient city. On the last 
step, Elena withdrew her arm from Sangiorgio’s, and 
sat down. She now looked small and dark, leaning for- 
ward on the step, her head resting on her clasped hands 
and her elbows on her knees, her eyes fixed on the beau- 
tiful Bernini fountain, with brimming bowl. Sangior- 
gio stood beside her, filled with a sense of masculine 
pride, which was perceptible through his air of lover-like 
submission. 

Elena appeared tired, as she still sat there, a dark spot 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 119 


in the moonlight, a mass of black draperies, within 
which, perhaps, throbbed an anxious soul, a troubled 
heart. The man appeared to tower over her in domina- 
tion. 

“Do you admire this fountain?” she asked, raising her 
head. 

“Very much; it is beautiful.” 

“Yes, it is. Why do you not sit here beside me?” 

She did not look up at him, but seemed to be ad- 
dressing the rippling waters of the fountain. He sat 
down at her side. 

“Have you no cigars? Won’t you smoke a little?” 

“I am sorry I have no cigarettes for you.” 

“Never mind that—you must smoke.” 

He lighted a cigar, and she inhaled its aroma. 

“What cigar is that?” 

“A Minghetti.” 

“It smells good,” she observed. 

She followed with her eyes the blue smoke that rose 
in the air. 

A closed carriage emerged from the Via di Due Ma- 
celli, passed them rapidly, and disappeared in the Via 
Babuino. 

“They must be coming from the ball,” said Sangiorgio. 

“What a tiresome affair that was!” whispered Elena 
tenderly. 

“Yes,” replied Sangiorgio to that sweet whisper, which 
gave him a pleasure that was almost pain. 

Suddenly she rose to her feet, as if propelled by a 
spring. 


120 . MATILDE SERAO 


“I am cold—very cold. Let us go!” she said abruptly. 

She wrapped herself closely in her fur robe, and drew 
him toward the Via Propaganda. 

He tossed away his cigar, and suddenly felt that the 
lady’s mood had changed; that she was ready to quit 
him, perhaps regretting her momentary caprice. But he 
remained proudly silent. Could anyone count on a 
woman’s caprice? He shrugged his shoulders, laughing 
internally at his own naiveté, which had led him into 
trusting for a moment in one of these frivolous beings. 

Elena, too, was silent; she walked swiftly, as if she 
were indeed cold; she looked at the ground and did not 
address her companion, who respected her silence, re- 
solved to follow this adventure to the end, in spite of 
the blow given to his self-esteem. When they reached 
the corner of the Via di Due Macelli, she suddenly 
turned into the Via Angelo Custode. 

“TI live here,” said Sangiorgio at a venture. 

“Where?” she exclaimed, stopping short. 

“At Number Fifty.” 

“Do you live alone?” 

“Yes, alone.” 

“Let us go up,” she said, crossing the street. “I will 
warm myself at your fire.” 

“T have no fire.” 

“Then I will warm myself by playing the piano.” 

“T have no piano either.” 

“That doesn’t matter!” was her only reply. 

Two days later, Francesco Sangiorgio was elected a 
member of the Budget Committee. 


CHAPTER IX 


A LADY AND A CHALLENGE 


Aty, ITTLE, idle, feminine hands, daintily gloved, 
4 (, amiably but rather listlessly applauded the 
pal brilliant finale of the pianist, a thin, dark, 

shabby man who disappeared behind the piano. 

“What expression!” exclaimed the wife of a deputy 
from Puglia, a stout person with a mass of black frizzes 
on her red and shining forehead. 

“Ah, delicious!” murmured Signora di Bertrand, the 
wife of a well known functionary, a delicate Piedmon- 
tese, with a Madonna-like face framed in the high collar 
of a brocade mantle embroidered with gold. 

From group to group, from the ladies on the divans, 
in the easy-chairs, under the palms, and near the cabinets 
heaped with bric-a-brac, swept a wave of enthusiasm. 
Even those who only stood at the threshold of the Min- 
isterial drawing-room nodded their heads in sympathy 
with the general movement of admiration. Only his 
Highness, the Egyptian Prince, reclining in an easy- 
chair, remained calm in his impassive Oriental obesity, 
with his sallow face, beard of a nondescript color, his 
great eyes half closed under a red fez, perhaps dream- 
ing of the dramatic melodies of the Aida, who had been 
one of the glories of his reign. 


The feminine chatter began again, louder than ever, 
121 


122 MATILDE SERAO 


and Donna Luisa Catalani, the hostess, wife of the Min- 
ister, who had snatched a moment’s rest during the 
music, resumed her bows and smiles and curtseys. Her 
white gown, her diamond earrings, her little head, 
piquant face and original coiffure, appeared to be every- 
where at once, so that one fancied there were ten Luisa 
Catalanis. 

“These afternoon concerts are so tiresome!” languidly 
remarked the Countess Schwartz, a tall, thin woman, 
with pale face and fringed hair, who slightly resembled 
Sarah Bernhardt. Ensconced in an armchair, shivering 
in her furs like a chilled bird, she barely moved her lips 
in sipping her tea. 

“Luisa is made of steel!” murmured Signora Gallenga, 
wife of the Secretary-General of Finance, coughing 
slightly and elevating her eyebrows, slanted like those 
of a Chinese. “She endures what I could not; fortu- 
nately, I am not obliged to receive all the world. Were 
you at the Chamber to-day, Countess?” 

“I never go there.” 

Signora Gallenga suddenly understood that her ques- 
tion was lacking in tact. Count Schwartz had succeeded 
in being elected to a provincial councilorship, but could 
not obtain the office of deputy. 

“I was there,” said Signora Mattei, wife of another 
secretary-general, a Florentine brunette wearing a large 
black hat loaded with red poppies. “It was a very in- 
teresting session.” 

“And I was not there—what a pity!” exclaimed Sig- 
nora Gallenga. “Did you speak to Sangiorgio?” 


THE CONQUEST+-OF ROME 123 


“Yes, I did,” said the coquettish Florentine, smiling. 

A sibillant “Sh! sh!” ran through the room. A stout 
lady with a double chin, tightly encased in a cuirass-like 
bodice of red satin, and wearing a good-humored smile 
on her pasty face, began to sing one of Tosti’s emotional 
romances. She had thrown back her mantle from her 
shoulders, and with hands tucked in her muff, and veil 
slightly lifted, she sang, with complete serenity and lack 
of feeling, the expressive music of the Abruzzian master. 

Luisa Catalani, standing, encircled by fifty invited 
guests, seated, listened politely, although her mind was 
distracted by the arrival of several ladies, who were wait- 
ing in the anteroom for the conclusion of the song. 

This reception was the most important of the season; 
the temperature of the drawing-room was like that of a 
hothouse, with the sweet, saccharine odor peculiar to a 
place where many women are present. Along the sides of 
the room, attired in severely conventional frock-coats, 
stood a row of public officials, bald and taciturn, who 
had left the Court of Accounts at half-past four; there 
were also treasury and ministerial officials, all of whom 
preserved a bureaucratic dignity. All were schooled to 
tireless patience and resignation, whereby they passed 
from one grade to the next higher, until forty years of 
public service permitted them to retire. 

The song was finished; a sigh of relief was audible; 
the singer complacently accepted the offered compli- 
ments, a broad smile upon her moonlike face. 

Luisa Catalani hastened to the next room to receive the 
latest arrivals. 


124 MATILDE SERAO 


“What went on at the Chamber to-day?” she inquired 
of a young girl, pale and blond, the daughter of a 
minister. 

“Oh, it was atrociously hot—that is all I noticed,” the 
young woman replied, drawing a paper fan from her 
pocket. “Really, I don’t see how the men endure that 
place.” 

“Sangiorgio spoke well,” said Signora Giroux, a little 
woman with white hair and a shrewd smile on her rosy 
lips. She was the wife of the Minister of Agriculture. 

“He is a Southerner, I believe,” said Luisa Catalani. 
“Who was in the diplomatic gallery?” 

“The Countess di Santaninfa and the Countess di 
Malgra.” 

“Pretty hats?” 

“Qh—so-so—not particularly,” the blonde replied ab- 
stractedly. 

In one corner a group of young girls chattered gayly, 
their loosened wraps showing their slender figures in 
dark, tailor-made gowns. Enrichetta Serafini, daughter 
of the Minister of Public Works, a vivacious brunette in 
fashionable mourning, talked enough for four; around 
her were grouped the Signorina Camilly, an Italian born 
in Egypt; Signorina Borla, a somewhat mature damsel, 
afflicted with a perennially youthful mother; Signorina 
Ida Fasulo, a sympathetic young creature, with large, 
dreamy eyes; Signorina Allievo, with a sad but pretty 
face; and, finally, the only sprig of aristocracy in the 
group—Donna Sofia di Maccarese, blond and fair under 
the drooping white plumes on her hat. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 125 


“I prefer Tosti to any other composer,” said Enrichetta 
Serafini. “He always makes me feel like weeping.” 

“Denza’s music, too, brings tears to my eyes,” ob- 
served Signorina Borla, who did not know how to sing, 
and was compelled always to listen to the superannuated 
warbling of her mother. 

“And you, Sofia, what composer is your favorite?” 

“Schumann,” Sofia replied simply. 

The others were silent a moment. They did not know 
Schumann’s music; but Enrichetta, nervous and rattle- 
brained, went on: 

“But the music of all these composers should be sung 
extremely well.” Then, lowering her voice: “Did you 
like the singing of the lady who has just favored us?” 

All the girls tittered and giggled. 

“The Countess Fiammanti is called the best singer in 
Rome at present,” remarked Signorina Camilly. 

The girls made no reply; Signorina Borla compressed 
her lips with an air of disapproval; Ida Fasulo cast a 
downward glance; Signorina Allievo blushed. Sofia di 
Maccarese alone made no sign; either she did not know 
or she did not trouble herself about the Countess Fiam- 
manti. 

“Is it true that she is to marry the Deputy Sangior- 
gio?” inquired Enrichetta. 

“Well, no—I think not!” replied Signorina Camilly, 
with a malicious smile in her Oriental-looking eyes. 

Around the group flashed one of those mute but ex- 
pressive signs, to which the rules of society compel 
young girls to restrict themselves. 


126 MATILDE SERAO 


The gathering in the drawing-room had greatly in- 
creased; the air was heavy with perfumes, with the odor 
of tea, and of warm furs. The women were chattering 
in groups, with pretty movements of the head and softly 
modulated voices. Several ladies were talking about the 
Chamber, discussing gravely the merits of the Honorable 
Bomba, criticising the color of the carpet, ridiculing the 
waistcoats of the Count Lapucci, and admiring the pen- 
sive, Christ-like physiognomy of the Honorable Joanna. 

Signora Gallenga, who posed as a highly intellectual 
person, said: 

“This year the Abruzzi are the fashion in literature, 
and the Basilicate in politics.” 

The frivolous babble stopped suddenly. Signora An- 
gelica Vargas, tall and beautiful, had entered, and 
crossed the room with her rhythmic step, seeking Luisa 
Catalani. 

She was attired in black, as usual, with sparkling jet 
trimming on her bodice and hat. 

Luisa Catalani hastened to greet her with her sweetest 
smile. Each bowed with great ceremony, and then a 
low-toned colloquy followed between the two women— 
the one in white, with ash-blond hair, the other in black, 
with rich, dark waves above her smooth brow. 

The guests near them politely affected not to hear 
their quiet conversation. His Highness Mehemet Pacha 
roused himself from his torpor and contemplated that 
chaste countenance, whose large clear eyes reminded 
him of those of the women of his own land, for which, 
perhaps, he felt homesick. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 127 


Those brilliant, jet-black eyes threw a comprehensive 
glance around the apartment, and when the hostess had 
turned away, several other ladies approached to salute 
Angelica Vargas, and soon she was the center of an ad- 
miring group. Although among them were the wives 
of many influential politicians, pillars of the state, she, 
the wife of a cabinet officer of the second rank, a simple 
Minister of Fine Arts, seemed the most distinguished 
woman present, and the quiet dignity of her mien had 
something about it almost royal. 


In order to feel the cold less keenly, while writing in 
his long, narrow sitting-room in the Via Angelo Custode, 
Sangiorgio had wrapped an old coat around his legs. 

At eight o’clock the maid-of-all-work had brought him 
a cup of coffee while he was still in bed. Then he 
arose and dressed quickly, while she put the rooms in 
order. When her work was finished, the girl departed 
without a word, her face wearing the sulky scowl of 
ill-paid underlings who rebel at their fate. 

The hasty sweeping had scattered dust everywhere; 
the window-curtains were yellow, and a nauseating 
odor of stale dirt permeated both rooms. Sangiorgio, 
without a glance at the depressing view of the court- 
yard, with its balconies full of old pots and broken ket- 
tles, began to write at a small student’s table, piled 
high with official documents and letters from the Basi- 
licata. He wrote on large sheets of commercial paper, 
dipping his pen into a cheap glass inkstand. 

Toward ten o’clock he began to feel intolerably cold 


128 MATILDE SERAO 


in his feet and legs, and, as he had still three hours’ 
work to do, he went to his bedroom and brought out 
an old coat, which he spread over his knees. This he did 
as mechanically as an automaton, without taking his 
mind from the speech he had been preparing for a week. 
The ardor that consumed him was expressed in the large 
handwriting, clear and flowing, which covered the sheets 
of paper; in the tension of his facial muscles, and in his 
absent look, lost to exterior things. 

The pile of manuscript at his left increased, and he 
paused only to consult Parliament blue-books, to refer 
to a thick volume of agricultural reports, or to a soiled 
and torn notebook. At eleven o’clock, when he was 
deep in his work, he heard the sound of a key in the 
lock, and a woman entered very quietly, closing the 
door behind her. 

“Tt is I,” she said, holding a large bunch of roses 
against her breast. Sangiorgio raised his head, and 
gazed at her for an instant without recognizing her, so 
absorbed was his mind in his occupation. 

“Am I disturbing you?” inquired Elena, in her musical 
voice. “Ah, yes, I do disturb you! Go on writing— 
stay there at your work. I was so bored at home by 
this gloomy rainy weather that I went out to drive; but 
my horse slipped down in the mud, and people were 
falling, too, with their shoes simply thick with mud. It 
was horrible, so I did not care to stay out any longer, 
and have come to have luncheon with you. But you are 
writing. Go on; I will take a book and read.” 

“My poor sweetheart, I have no books here that you 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 129 


would like,” Sangiorgio replied, without remembering to 
thank her for having come. 

She rummaged among his papers, her daintily-gloved 
hands encumbered by the roses. Sangiorgio regarded 
her with a complacent smile. She was always very at- 
tractive, with her pouting red lips, her strangely variable 
eyes, her full white throat; and he felt a joyous pride to 
have her there near him, in his own room. 

“You are right—there is nothing one can read,” she 
laughed. “I don’t care to know how much polenta the 
Lombards eat, nor how many potatoes the Southerners 
raise. That sort of thing bores me. But go on with 
your writing, Francesco; never mind me.” 

He rose, took her in his arms and kissed her eyelids 
through her little veil, as she liked to have him. She 
laughed like an eager child receiving a bonbon. Then 
he returned to his work, while Elena walked about the 
rooms to warm herself, for it was very cold, this rainy 
March day, in the fireless room. 

“Aren’t you cold, Francesco?” she inquired presently, | 
sinking on the divan, where she contemplated curiously 
the profusion of tidies with which it was decorated. 

“A little,” he answered, without raising his head. 

She glanced again around the room in all its shab- 
biness, and comprehended the state of decent proverty 
in which her lover lived; she looked long at him, writing 
busily at the little table, so small that the least move- 
ment knocked the papers off it; and in the young 
woman’s eyes shone a new tenderness which Francesco 


did not see. Twice she opened her lips to speak to him, 
9 


130 MATILDE SERAO 


but remained silent. Now, leaning against the mantel- 
piece, she reviewed the collection of photographs, and the 
sacrilegious representations of the royal family. 

“Francesco, have you ever had your photograph 
taken?” she asked presently, admiring herself in the mir- 
ror, and straightening a bow on her hat. 

“Yes, once, in Naples, where I was a student,” he re- 
plied, stopping to consult a blue-book. 

“And have you one of the pictures now?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“TI wish I had one!” she said, in the wheedling tone of 
a child. 

“Is not the original enough for you?” 

“No,” Elena replied, pensively. 

He rose again, and took both her hands in his, asking 
tenderly: 

“You really love me, then?” 

“Yes, yes, yes!” she sang, in three musical notes. 

Francesco sat down at the table once more, and Elena 
approached the bedroom. She paused at the threshold, 
and said: 

“Francesco, why were you not at the theater last 
night?” 

“The council of the Budget Committee lasted until 
eleven o’clock, and after that I was tired.” 

“A great many visitors came to my box—Giustini, for 
one. Tell me, why are you so intimate with him?” 

“He is useful to me,” Sangiorgio answered simply, still 
bending over his writing. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 131 


“Oh!” After a slight pause: “Do you know, he speaks 
ill of you?” 

“T hope so.” 

“It is true that he never has a good word for any but 
mediocrities. I believe that you will some day be a great 
statesman, Francesco.” 

“Oh, not for a very long time,” he replied, jotting 
some figures on a slip of paper. 

“Then Gallenga and Oldofredi came in for a little 
while, and Oldofredi made love to me!” 

“Oldofredi has good taste,” was the gallant reply. 

Elena smiled, and entered the adjoining room, which 
was so shabby and ugly that she almost recoiled in 
disgust. 

She surveyed the arabesques on the quilt, from which 
the servant had shaken the dust, but the huge grease- 
spot on the blue chair made her turn away her head, 
her feminine instinct of neatness offended. She moved 
about the room, searching for something she wanted. 

On the bureau were only two empty candlesticks and 
a clothesbrush, neither of which was of any use to her; 
on the table she found two combs and a broken bottle 
of toilet water. The room was as bare as the abode of 
an anchorite. 

Finally, in a corner she discovered a carafe and a 
drinking-glass. Delighted, she untied her cluster of 
flowers, slipped three or four roses into the neck of the 
carafe, and put another bunch in the glass, tossed a few 
on the quilt at the foot of the bed, and then, not know- 
ing what to do with the remainder, she tucked two or 


132 MATILDE SERAO 


three under the pillow. Next she opened one of the 
bureau drawers, where Sangiorgio kept his gloves and 
cravats, and there she dropped the last of the roses. 

She espied a photograph, still in its envelope, which 
had apparently been tossed in carelessly: it was her 
own! A shade of sadness passed over her face, but did 
not linger. Into that wretched room, with only the gray 
light from the dingy court, which sent up indescribably 
unpleasant odors, the roses now brought a breath of 
springtime, suggesting the sunny corner of some per- 
fumed garden. 

“T have finished,” said Sangiorgio, appearing at the 
door. 

“Then let us go to luncheon.” 

“Do you think we shall have finished by half-past 
one?” 

“Why?” 

“I have an appointment with a constituent.” 

“Oh, indeed! I think we shall finish by that time. I 
hope so, for I too have an appointment for two o’clock— 
with Oldofredi!” 

“Ah!” said Sangiorgio, putting on his topcoat. 

“Yes. I mean to make him tell me the reason why 
he did not wish to marry Angelica Vargas.” 

“Did he ever intend to marry her?” 

“Yes, but he says he refused to do so, after a time. 
Perhaps it was she that refused him! Nearly everyone 
dislikes Oldofredi. Do you know him?” 

“No; he does not interest me.” 

“You are very pale; what is the matter?” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 133 


“T don’t know. Perhaps it is because I am cold.” 

“Well, come home with me. There is a good fire in 
the drawing-room, and you shall warm yourself beside 
it and be happy.” 

He followed her, without even seeing the roses. 


The Honorable Oldofredi went seldom to the Parlia- 
ment library; occasionally he dropped in to look for a 
friend, but never asked for a book or a newspaper. Some 
malicious tongues spread a report that he did not know 
how to read. 

On this particular afternoon, he entered the great read- 
ing-room, and found Sangiorgio sitting behind a small 
mountain of books, dipping here and there into works on 
social science, volumes of history, statistics, and political 
economy. Oldofredi’s face wore a sneering smile at the 
sight of so much industry, and he strolled aimlessly to 
and fro, blowing bits of tobacco out of a small amber 
cigarette-holder. 

The Honorable Oldofredi, despite his reputation as a 
formidable swordsman and a Don Juan, was neither 
handsome nor athletic; he had a tall, shambling figure, 
clayey complexion, a cruel and stupid face, and all his 
limbs seemed as loose-jointed as those of an acrobat. 
His whole person, in short, was extremely disagreeable. 

Sangiorgio looked at him curiously, following the 
movements of this grotesque and clumsy creature, whom 
he hated with an instinctive feeling of jealousy and envy. 
He watched him striding to and fro, and held his pen in 
the air, forgetting his volumes of statistics and his polit- 


134 MATILDE SERAO 


ical economy. This specimen of a Don Quixote, dis- 
liked by all his colleagues, odious to all the women, 
ignorant, stupid and tactless, nevertheless succeeded, in 
spite of these faets, in getting himself reélected, in mak- 
ing people talk about him, and in holding a certain place 
in society. 

Oldofredi was a political fighter, but his duels had 
ceased to be a topic of corwersation, for no one had 
dared to offend him for a long time. But he was always 
called upon as a second, an arbiter, or a counselor in 
very serious disputes, for his word was law in affairs of 
honor. This lent him a certain romantic prestige, ugly 
and vulgar though he was, and scandal-lovers said mali- 
ciously that ladies who felt their virtue weakening made 
a friend of this modern Roland, because he was a bug- 
bear to tender inclinations. 

“Have you happened to see our friend Bomba, Signor 
Sangiorgio?” at last said Oldofredi, stopping beside the 
deputy’s desk. 

“I? No,” the other replied briefly. 

“Where can he be hiding himself? He is not in the 
Chamber; that fish of a Borgonero is making an idiotic 
speech down there. I have searched everywhere for 
Bomba. He can only be here in the library, in com- 
pany with that imbecile of a Giordano Bruno. Do you 
believe, Sangiorgio, that such a person as Giordano 
Bruno ever existed. 

' “I? Certainly!” was the curt reply. 

Sangiorgio, impatient, measured from head to foot, 

with a scornful glance, this vain braggart, who tramped 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 135 


about heavily, swaying his clumsy form awkwardly, and 
creating an irritating noise in that quiet library. 

The Honorable Gasparini, the Tuscan with a white 
beard and a shrewd smile, who was writing in an ad- 
joining room on the right, had already looked up im- 
patiently once or twice, unable to continue his work be- 
cause of the conversation. 

Oldofredi strolled over to the open door of the room 
on the left, leaned against the jamb for a moment, with 
his hands in his pockets, and looked with a sneering 
smile at the Honorable Giroux, an elderly deputy, slow 
and serious, who had before him an ancient tome, al- 
though his expression was drowsy and his eyes were 
half closed. Then he returned to Sangiorgio, and said, 
still sneering: 

“There he is—in there with Copernicus.” 

“Who?” said Sangiorgio, coldly. 

“Giroux. It isn’t enough for him to bore everyone 
with his own philosophical foolishness; he must go and 
dig up Copernicus. Bah! Giroux will be telling us next 
that he knew him in Turin, when he was a carbonaro!” 

He burst out laughing without noticing Sangiorgio’s 
disgusted expression, or the nervous quiver that made 
the pen tremble in the Southern deputy’s hand. 

“And Gasparini is over there, studying up English 
law, in order to be able to argue against Giroux to-mor- 
row. What do you think?” 

“I? Nothing.” 

“I am going to take Gasparini by the hand and lead 
him to Giroux, and bring about a reconciliation. Ben- 


136 MATILDE SERAO 


tham and Copernicus will bless them, and the financial 
situation of Italy will be just as badly off as it was 
before.” 

He made these remarks in a loud tone, as if he wished 
the two men to hear him. 

Sangiorgio, disturbed, made a sign with his head which 
Oldofredi understood immediately. 

“Oh, they don’t hear! When Giroux is with Coper- 
nicus, he hears nothing more; and Gasparini always 
goes to sleep over his English laws!” He shrugged his 
shoulders slightly, with one of the swaggering move- 
ments that had helped to gain for him his reputation 
for courage. 

“Who knows? They might hear you and answer 
you,” said Sangiorgio significantly. 

“Not they—they would say nothing whatever. A lit- 
tle unsigned letter, criticising me, might appear to-mor- 
row morning in the journal of the Opposition—that is all. 
That is the custom in politics. Or they will pretend 
they have heard nothing—as always. You are young— 
that is easily seen—and you have many things to learn. 
Let me tell you something: in political life, never reply 
to a man’s face. Either forget or wait!’ 

- “But suppose they should act otherwise than as you 
have said,” Sangiorgio replied, more coldly than before. 

“Pooh! Why, my dear sir, for five years I have had 
the run of this palace, criticising whomsoever I chose, 
and saying exactly what I think of everything and every- 
- body. Has anyone ever forbidden me to do so, or at- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 137 


tacked me to my face, like a courageous adversary? No 
one, I assure you, my good sir!” 

“And why have they not?” inquired Sangiorgio, his 
eyes fixed on his paper, appearing to reflect deeply. 

“Why? Because the older men have exhausted their 
stock of courage—if they ever had any!—and the 
younger have not begun to use theirs—supposing that 
they possess any!” 

“Do you really believe that, Oldofredi?” 

“Heavens! Do I believe it? The Chamber is full of 
cowards and sneaks!” 

“No, it is not, Oldofredi!” 

“Rascality, Cowardice and Company—that is the name 
of the organization.” 

“T tell you it is not, Oldofredi.” 

“Do I understand that you give me the lie?” 

“Precisely !” 

“You persist in it?” 

“Absolutely !” 

“You assert that the members of Parliament are 
neither cowards nor rascals?” 

“Certainly I do.” 

“Very well! I live in the Via Frattina, Number 
Forty-six; I dine at the Colonna, and I shall be at the 
Apollo this evening.” 

“Very well.” 

“Good-day!” 

“Good-day!” 

Oldofredi made an elaborately careless gesture, 


138 MATILDE SERAO 


knocked the ashes off his cigarette, and went out, swing- 
ing his long arms. 

Sangiorgio dipped his pen into the ink and resumed 
his writing. No one had overheard the conversation. 
Gasparini turned the leaves of the English law-books; 
Giroux dozed over Copernicus; and Sangiorgio took 
notes from a work on political economy. 


CHAPTER X 


ANOTHER STEP TOWARD CONQUEST 


HEN the Honorable Sangiorgio entered the 
Parliament café for dinner, at seven o’clock 
that evening, every head in the dark-red, 
crypt-like Egyptian room turned toward him, 

and his name flew from one to another. 

The young deputy, after a moment of indecision, seated 
himself at a little vacant table. Immediately the Hon- 
orable Correr bowed to him amicably, as did the Hon- 
orable Scalatelli, a colonel of carabineers. Meanwhile, 
the tall, stout Paulo continued to dispute with Berna, the 
little Mephistophelian deputy from Padua, who had a 
wicked wit and a caustic tongue. 

“Ts this news true—what we hear about a duel, San- 
giorgio?” asked Correr in a low tone. 

“Quite true,” Sangiorgio replied, calmly examining the 
menu. 

“Is it your first duel?” 

“My first.” 

“Have you ever fenced?” 

“A little.” 

“You have been rather rash. Oldofredi is tremend- 
ously strong.” 

“A duel—a duel, did you say? Who are the com- 


batants?” cried Paulo. 
139 


140 MATILDE SERAO 


“The Honorable Sangiorgio is to meet Oldofredi,” 
Correr explained. 

“By Jove! a good adversary! Oldofredi is left-handed 
—don’t forget that, Sangiorgio.” 

“I was not aware of it, but I will remember it,” was 
the cool reply. 

“And how about seconds? Whom have you for sec- 
onds?” demanded the enormous Paulo, the colossus, th< 
- molossus, who grew excited at the mere idea of a duel. 

“The Count di Castelforte and Rosolino Scalia. I am 
expecting them to dine with me,” said Sangiorgio. 

“Good! An excellent choice; they are sensible fel- 
lows, and will not try to patch up a reconciliation when 
you get on the ground.” 

“Was this duel inevitable?” inquired Scalatelli. 

“Inevitable.” 

“Oldofredi is a fine swordsman. I fought with him 
once, years ago, and he wounded me on the wrist,” the 
Colonel calmly explained. 

At that moment the Count di Castelforte and Rosolino 
Scalia entered, glancing about to discover their principal. 
The Count had an aristocratic air, with his tall figure, 
his dark beard streaked with silver, and his cold, impas- 
sive demeanor. Rosolino Scalia still looked like an of- 
ficer in civilian dress; he had a flower in his coat, and 
his moustache was waxed and perfumed; he too was 
cold and grave. Castelforte stopped to speak to Correr 
and Scalatelli, while Scalia removed his topcoat. 

“Well—has anything new happened?” Sangiorgio 
asked. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 141 


“Nothing—or almost nothing,” said Scalia, in a tone 
of reserve. 

Sangiorgio asked no more questions. The dinner be- 
gan in silence; Castelforte was very stiff, Scalia serious, 
and Sangiorgio indifferent. 

“The other seconds are Bomba and Lapucci,” said Sca- 
lia at length, pouring himself some wine. “The rendez- 
vous is appointed for half-past nine o’clock. Have you 
your swords, Sangiorgio?” 

“Yes. 

“Good!” said Castelforte. “I hope they have been 
newly sharpened—nothing is worse in a duel than dull 
swords. The conflict is prolonged, and the wounds are 
ridiculous.” 

“T gave them to Spadini himself to grind.” 

“Excellent!” said Scalia. “A duel should not last too 
long, for it easily becomes a farce. A word of advice, 
Sangiorgio: think of nothing, and disturb yourself about 
nothing, but, at the first assault, make a bold rush and 
press on; never mind the movements of your adversary, 
but throw yourself upon him; this is the best way for 
novices to begin.” 

“Lapucci has given me to understand,” put in Castel- 
forte, “that the conditions of this combat are very se- 
rious. You may not realize, Sangiorgio, that between 
responsible seconds these matters are of grave consider- 
ation.” 

“TI have no desire to jest on this subject,” Sangiorgio 
replied, taking some salad. 

“So much the better. Have you a surgeon?” 


142 MATILDE SERAO 


“No, said Sangiorgio, beginning to feel impatient. 

“Let us take Alberti—he is accustomed to these affairs. 
I will see him this evening.” 

A groom in livery, on whose cap appeared the words 
Caffé di Roma in gilt letters, now entered the restaurant, 
looking around to find some one. He had a note for 
Sangiorgio, who read it at once. . 

“The Speaker of the Chamber asks me to see him at 
the Caffé di Roma, where he will be until ten o’clock.” 

“See him, by all means,” Castelforte advised, “but be 
firm, and do not allow him to change your intentions.” 

“Scalia! Scalia!” from another table called the huge 
Paulo, who was fairly stamping with impatience; “for 
heaven’s sake, select some place for the encounter near 
an inn, a house, or even a cabin. Since the time when 
I had to bring back that poor Goffredi, wounded in the 
lung, and vomiting blood at every jolt during a three 
hours’ ride over a stony road, I have vowed never to act 
as second in a duel unless there was a bed to be found 
within fifty paces.” 

“Wouldn’t it be better, then, to have it in a house?” 
Correr observed. 

“No, indeed! That always brings bad luck—a duel 
in the house,” said Scalia. “A duel in the open is much 
better.” 

The two seconds now rose, and exchanged a few part- 
ing words with their principal. The men at the other 
tables eyed them curiously, but the three faces were im- 
passive. They parted with cordial bows and ceremonious 
handshaking. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 143 


“Good luck, colleague!” said the Honorable Correr. 

“Keep cool!” added Scalatelli. 

“If you think he has the evil eye, carry a bit of coral 
in your pocket,” suggested Berna. 

But, from his table, the giant Paulo called out fami- 
liarly, with a laugh: 

“Good night, Sangiorgio! Good luck, old fellow—and 
listen !—aim at his face!” 

As Sangiorgio left the restaurant, he met the reporter 
of a morning newspaper, who asked him for news. 

“IT have nothing to say,” was Sangiorgio’s only reply 
to the first question. 

“But may I call at your house to-morrow morning, to 
know the result of the duel?” the reporter persisted. 

“Via Angelo Custode, Number Fifty,” Sangiorgio said, 
moving off abruptly. 

At the Caffé di Roma, the Speaker was finishing dinner 
with his friend, Colonel Freitag, a stout man with a 
boyish face and high-pitched voice. The Speaker looked 
tired and bored. As soon as Sangiorgio joined them, he 
came straight to the point. 

“Cannot this miserable affair be adjusted, my dear 
colleague?” 

“T think not, Signor.” 

The Speaker made a little movement and bit his lip. 

“Come, now, some misunderstanding has arisen be- 
tween you and your adversary, eh? Nothing more se- 
rious, is it? You know, a duel between two deputies is 
a serious thing, and should not occur unless for a very 
grave cause.” 


144 MATILDE SERAO 


“I assure you, Signor, that no misunderstanding ex- 
ists,” said Sangiorgio quietly. 

“Yes, yes, I know—Oldofredi is rather free. You are 
young, and have taken offence at one of his jests. Take 
care, colleague! To-morrow morning the newspapers 
will be full of it, and there will be a scandal.” 

“I hope not, but in any event, there is no remedy.” 

“Some one will be sure to say that you have picked 
this quarrel with Oldofredi simply to make a sensation 
—to get yourself talked about.” 

And the Speaker looked sharply at Sangiorgio, but his 
face betrayed nothing more than an expression of min- 
gled indifference and disdain. He decided to renounce 
for the present his project of reconciliation. 

“What are the conditions of the duel?” he asked. 

“IT do not know yet, but I have a rendezvous with my 
seconds fixed for eleven o’clock.” And Sangiorgio rose, 
as if to go. 

“TI beg that you will not talk to any reporter. A par- 
liamentary duel is a rare morsel for them. Good luck, 
my dear colleague!” 

Sangiorgio bowed and departed, fully understanding 
the meaning of the distant silence of Colonel Freitag and 
the coldness of the Speaker. 

On reaching the street, he paused, undecided. He had 
agreed to meet his seconds at the Caffé Aragno, but he 
now felt a sudden disgust at this wandering from café 
to café, talking to these men apparently without families 
and without homes, who passed their evenings in these 
smoky haunts. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 145 


He was weary of the idly curious questions from per- 
sons who were totally indifferent to him. He preferred 
to stroll slowly up to Montecitorio, and on the way he 
bought some evening journals at a kiosk in the Piazza 
Colonna, and read them under a street-lamp. 

Two or three of the journals announced the duel; one 
used only the initials of those concerned, and added that 
all attempts at reconciliation had been futile. He thrust 
the papers into his pocket, and paced to and fro opposite 
the Parliament House, awaiting the arrival of his see- 
onds, who were then in consultation with the opposing 
seconds within the palace. 

The windows of the Bureau of Commissions were bril- 
liantly lighted, for the bureaux are always busy places; 
otherwise the square was deserted—the great somber 
square, without a shop to be seen. 

He strode this way and that, with his hands in his 
pockets and head down, walking quickly because of the 
dampness of the night air. 

The large doors of the Albergo Milano, opening on 
the square, had closed loudly after the arrival of the 
last omnibus from the railway station, and still the ex- 
pected seconds had not arrived. Sangiorgio felt irritated 
at being observed by the deputies, now coming out of the 
Palace, having finished their work. 

At last Castelforte and Scalia appeared at the door; 
the tall form of the Lombardy Count towering above the 
squatty little body of the Sicilian deputy. They were 


chatting gayly together; Sangiorgio hastened to meet 


them. 
10 


146 MATILDE SERAO 


“T do not wish to wait for you in a café,” he said, 
apologetically. “They are all full of people, and I do 
not care to have the air of posing for the gallery.” 

“You are quite right,” said Scalia. “When a man is 
about to fight a duel, it is in good taste for him to keep 
out of sight as much as possible. There is that poseur 
of an Oldofredi, running about all the evening from one 
café to another, making swaggering speeches. He is 
now at the Apollo, challenging the admiration of every- 
one. Well, at last we can say that everything is ar- 
ranged.” 

“The Acqua Acetosa, near the Porta del Popolo, is an 
excellent place,” Castleforte added. “It is not far. The 
meeting is fixed for ten o’clock, and we will call for you 
at half-past eight.” . 

All three turned their steps in the direction of San- 
giorgio’s lodgings; he smoked in silence. 

“Are you nervous?” Castelforte asked. 

“No, not at all.” 

“Then try to get some sleep. Have you any brandy 
at home?” 

“No.” 

“Brandy is a good thing to have. I will bring you 
some to-morrow. But you must try to get a good 
night’s sleep.” 

“Don’t disturb yourself about me. I shall sleep.” 

“We have not forbidden any strokes,” the Count con- 
tinued. “That was your wish, I believe.” 

“Precisely.” 

“I have notified Doctor Alberti,” added Scalia, “and he 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 147 


will be there. His experience is invaluable. Do not 
trouble about a carriage; we shall come in a landau. 
Only, be sure to be ready, for we must arrive punctually 
to the minute.” 

“How does it happen, Sangiorgio, that you never have 
fought a duel before?” 

“Oh, we in the Basilicata do not get angry easily.” 

“One would not think so!” said Castleforte, laughing. 

They turned in silence into the Via Angelo Custode. 
The three shadows moved along the deserted street; 
that of Castelforte lean and spectral, Scalia’s stiff and 
solid, Sangiorgio’s slender, but firm. 


Alone! The candle threw a dim light over the cold, 
bare room, where a close air was mingled with the stale 
odor of cooking that mounted from the court. 

Alone! He was glad of this solitude, for he felt an 
imperious need of complete isolation. 

Since the morning he had been conscious of an ever- 
increasing contempt for his fellow men; the experience 
he was passing through embittered his soul and filled his 
mind with disillusion and disgust. Upon his healthy 
moral equilibrium, which heretofore nothing, no being, 
no event had ever troubled, had been precipitated, with 
astonishing swiftness, the most unexpected meannesses, 
trickery, coldness and indifference, and all within seven 
short hours: first, the difficulty of finding seconds against 
Oldofredi, who had such a reputation as a swashbuckler; 
then the lukewarm interest of Scalia and Castleforte, fol- 
lowed by advice, insinuations, tactless warnings, lugu- 


148 MATILDE SERAO 


brious conversations, polite but insincere remarks—the 
recollection of these disagreeable things passed through 
‘his mind, a revelation of the hypocrisy of mankind. 

All these people—strangers, friends, enemies, admirers 
or detractors—judged him unfavorably: some with a 
pitying concern, others with spiteful irony or jealous 
anger—all with unmistakable contempt. His audacity 
in presuming to measure swords—he, the young, inex- 
perienced newcomer—with a bully whom no one dared 
insult, had gained him nothing but the disdain, compas- 
sion, or jests of his colleagues. So he was glad to be 
alone—to compose his mind away from his mocking 
fellows. 

Alone! No, he was not alone; sumething glittered on 
that divan. And as he approached it, candle in hand, a 
metallic gleam shone under the light: the two swords, 
newly sharpened, were to keep him company. 

These, at least, would not lie to him. There they lay, 
always loyal, always ready to parry a mortal blow, to 
strike, to cut down, to kill, one in his own hand, the 
other in that of his adversary, blade against blade, throw- 
ing off scintillating sparks. Yes, the swords were ready. 

Irresistibly drawn toward them, Sangiorgio sat down 
on the divan. What cared he now for reporters, depu- 
ties, seconds, friends or enemies? His whole attention 
was concentrated on the weapons. The result depended 
upon those sharp and glittering blades. The result! 
What result? He started, and glanced around involun. 
tarily as if to see who had pronounced that word; but 
he was alone—alone with the swords. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 149 


For most men, the night before a duel is agitated and 
sleepless; the expectant combatant has a wife to con- 
sole, a friend to communicate with, a relative to write 
to, a servant to instruct. He is not afraid, but in the 
depths of his mind there is a mingling of troubled 
thoughts, anxiety, and regret. In thinking of the ap- 
proaching conflict, however, his disturbed mind finds dis- 
traction and a kind of exaltation. } 

But for Sangiorgio there was nothing of all this: he 
had no wife, no relatives near him, no friend, no ser- 
vant—not a line to write, not a word to say, not an order 
to give! 

He tried in vain to arouse some emotion within him- 
self at the thought of the possible end. Who would 
weep if he should die to-morrow? No one—no one! he 
was alone—alone with the swords! And, in this crisis 
of bitter misanthropy, in this mental review of men and 
events, he thought of himself, of his great and only pas- 
sion—political ambition. A wound—whether grave or 
slight—would do considerable damage to his reputation, 
and his need of political éclat. In case of ignominious de- 
feat, no woman’s tears, no affection of a friend, no family 
concern, would be his, as a consolation for such a mis- 
fortune; he would be left alone to weep over his own 
fate, over his lost dreams of glory and lofty ambitions, 
vanished in the moral and physical shame of this dis- 
aster. The sword-thrust which to-morrow might pierce 
his flesh, cut the muscles, or open a vein, would find 
also the way to his heart—that heart so cold and hard. 
wherein dwelt a single overwhelming passion. 


150 MATILDE SERAO 


The task at which he had labored so long, with the 
patience of an ant and an unparalleled persistence, might 
fall in ruins to-morrow. Of what use had been so many 
efforts, so many privations, so many pangs endured in 
silence? One stroke of the sword, and all that would 
become in vain. In the profound silence and absolute 
solitude of the night, for one moment those sabers, shin- 
ing in the smoky light of the candle, made him tremble. 


The seconds arrived precisely at half-past eight. San- 
giorgio, his topcoat buttoned up, his tall hat resting on 
a table, was pale, but perfectly calm. Only a slight 
quiver of one corner of his mouth was visible. 

“Where are the swords?” Castelforte asked. 

“There they are.” 

The Count drew them from their scabbards, one after 
the other, touched the points, and tried the blades by 
pressing them against the floor. 

“Have you a silk scarf or handkerchief, or something 
to tie them together with?” 

Sangiorgio had a scarf. Scalia put the swords in a 
bag, tied it around with the scarf, took up the gauntlet, 
and said to Castelforte: 

“Shall we go?” 

“Yes, let us go.” 

They descended the dark stairs. The coachman 
opened the door of the landau. Scalia threw the swords 
on the front seat, and the three men jumped into the 
carriage. 

They drove through the Via di Due Macelli, where an 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 151 


early florist was watering his roses, and turned into the 
Piazza di Spagna. A few drops struck against the car- 
riage-windows. 

“It rains,” said Sangiorgio. 

“That is nothing,” Castelforte replied, “a duel in the 
rain is more dramatic.” 

The Via del Babuino was in process of reconstruc- 
tion; piles of stones and rubbish blocked the side streets, 
and the entrance to the Via Vittoria was impassable, be- 
cause of repairs to the drain-pipes going on. 

When they reached the Piazza del Popolo, the storm 
increased, and the rain-drops had turned to hail, which 
struck the glass with a sharp rattle. 

“A squall,” said Scalia; “the winds are having a com- 
bat also.” 

The carriage stopped to take up the surgeon, who 
awaited the party on the steps of the Caffé dei Tre Re, 
his instrument-case tucked under his arm. He seated 
himself next to Sangiorgio, and began to talk, with great 
gayety and good humor, about the various duels at which 
he had assisted. 

The landau rolled swiftly along the muddy pavement 
of the Flaminian Way, meeting the first car on the tram- 
way of the Ponte Molle, which was almost empty. In 
the distance, the first glimpse of the country was visible; 
trees were outlined against the stone walls. 

Then Sangiorgio, who up to that moment had re- 
mained in a sort of moral and physical stupor, awakened 
from it with a start; Scalia had lowered a window. He 
began to think and to revive. His nervous force con- 


152 MATILDE SERAO 


centrated itself in his hand, which clutched the tassel of 
the window-curtain; small flushed spots appeared on his 
cheeks. But his mind became wholly self-centered, and 
to the remarks of the surgeon and his seconds he replied 
only with nods of the head. 

The horses trotted steadily on, puffing as they climbed 
the hill. The descent began at the Villa Glori, and then 
they accelerated their pace. The walls had disappeared; to 
right and left were flowery hedges; Sangiorgio thought 
that children ran after the carriage, offering him bunches 
of hawthorn. Then the hedges gave place to rows of 
elms, which murmured softly in the breeze. 

They stopped. A sudden tremor shook Sangiorgio, 
and every trace of color left his face. He made a move- 
ment to alight, but Castelforte restrained him. 

“Remain in the carriage with the doctor,” he said. 
“The exact spot has not been chosen yet. Wait a little.” 

The seconds alighted, while their principal looked out 
of the window at them. They were the first to arrive. 
The cabin at the Acqua Acetosa appeared abandoned; 
the blinds were down, the doors closed. The river 
flowed through the green and lonely plain; in the dis- 
tance a flock of sheep was grazing, under the eye of a 
shepherd, who sat motionless, his cap pulled over his 
eyes. 

Castelforte and Scalia moved off, gesticulating, their 
well-dressed figures making a strange contrast to the 
surroundings of that wild spot, where the sky and the 
gray earth seemed all of one color, and the livid waves 
of the Tiber rolled slowly along. Presently they re- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 153 


turned, talking animatedly. Sangiorgio was beginning 
to be impatient; the carriage seemed irksome; he felt 
stifled. 

The seconds approached; Castelforte, leaning against 
the door, said: 

“We have found an excellent spot; the ground is a 
trifle spongy, but it is not slippery. We must wait to 
see whether the others are satisfied with it.” 

“Here they come!” said Sangiorgio, whose nerves were 
strangely irritated by his inaction. 

A sound of wheels was heard; a landau approached 
rapidly, turned before the cabin, and drew up beside the 
other carriage. From it descended Oldofredi, Lapucci, 
and Bomba. The two latter advanced to meet Sangior- 
gio’s seconds, while the two surgeons, after saluting each 
other, set their instrument-cases on the ground. 

Oldofredi, standing near his carriage, his topcoat un- 
buttoned, smoked, and struck playfully at the horses’ 
cruppers with his cane. Sangiorgio regarded him from 
the carriage, furious at his own ignorance as to the 
etiquette of dueling. Should he remain in the carriage 
still, or get out, like his adversary? 

The four seconds talked and argued; in the soft, damp 
air, the Lombardy accent of Castelforte was clearly dis- 
tinguishable, while the voices of the others were indis- 
tinct. 

At last Scalia and Bomba approached their respective 
principals. Castelforte and Lapucci cleared the ground 
at the chosen spot, and traced lines with their canes. 
Scalia, on reaching Sangiorgio, said: 


154 MATILDE SERAO 


“Undress now! Leave your topcoat and hat in the 
carriage.” 

Then he took the swords and the gauntlet, and re- 
turned to the field; Bomba joined him, carrying other 
swords and another gauntlet. 

Sangiorgio, who trembled with impatience and eager- 
ness for the combat, removed his hat, tore off his topcoat, 
coat, waistcoat, and cravat, and hastened to his seconds. 
The clanking of the weapons as they were laid on the 
ground made him start. Castleforte called to him: 

“Keep on your topcoat—it is cold.” 

Sangiorgio returned, took the coat, threw it over his 
shoulders, and rejoined his seconds. Castelforte and 
Lapucci were drawing lots for the privilege of giving the 
word of command and of having the choice of arms. 

“Have you had a glass of brandy?” the surgeon asked 
of Sangiorgio. 

“No.” 

“That is wrong; one should always take a stimulant.” 

“T hardly have need of it,” said Sangiorgio to him- 
self. 

“I am to command the combat,” Castelforte an- 
nounced. “You, gentlemen, are to choose the weapons. 
Will you examine ours?” 

“I choose the swords we brought,” said Lapucci. 
“Here they are.” 

Oldofredi was coolly surveying the landscape, an anem- 
one between his lips, his back turned to the others. 
Castelforte handed a sword to Sangiorgio, fastened the 
handle to his wrist, and led him to his place. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 155 


The two surgeons moved away about twenty paces. 
Scalia stood at Sangiorgio’s left, and Bomba at Oldo- 
fredi’s. Lapucci and Castelforte stood near the middle, 
one on each side, sword in hand. 

Oldofredi looked more stupid and insignificant than 
ever, seeming not to comprehend what was taking place. 

Casteltorte, with his military air like that of a captain 
of cavalry, looked imperiously at the two adversaries. 

“Gentlemen!” he began. 

Sangiorgio’s face flushed suddenly; Oldofredi threw 
away his anemone, and with a graceful movement disem- 
barrassed himself of his topcoat. 

“Gentlemen! It would be an insult to recommend to 
two such men as you that you comport yourselves ac- 
cording to the rules of courtesy. I will only request 
that you stop when I say ‘Halt!’ and not make an at- 
tack until I give the word. Now we will begin.” He 
glanced at Lapucci, and cried: 

_ “En garde!’ 
’ Oldofredi, with a swift movement that was hardly per- 
ceptible, advanced his right leg, bent one arm behind his 
body and assumed the proper position. Sangiorgio ab- 
ruptly struck the attitude of guard, and extended his arm 
as stiffly as if it were of iron. 

“A vous?’ commanded Castelforte. 

They sprang toward each other. Oldofredi’s sword 
struck that of Sangiorgio, who had made a thrust at him, 
and it fell from his hand; but Sangiorgio had raised his 
arm with such force that the stroke had bewildered his 
enemy. 


156 MATILDE SERAO 


“Halt!” cried Castelforte, lowering his own sword be- 
tween the two combatants. They paused, and resumed 
their former places. 

Oldofredi, a little pale, was smiling; Sangiorgio 
breathed hard, like a bull that sees a red garment. 

“En garde!’ again came the command. Sangiorgio, 
his arm extended, the point of the sword aimed di- 
rectly at Oldofredi’s face, looked at his opponent with 
so furious and fierce a stare that Oldofredi remarked it. 

“A vous!” cried Castelforte. 

This time Oldofredi sprang at Sangiorgio, who re- 
ceived him motionless, with extended arm, without par- 
rying; but he met the stroke with a thrust so neat and 
prompt that the weapon fell from the hand of his ad- 
versary, and remained hanging from his wrist. 

“Halt!” 

Lapucci and Bomba ran to refasten Oldofredi’s sword. 

“A fine thrust!” murmured Castelforte. 

Sangiorgio had recovered all his serenity. A smile of 
gratified pride illuminated his face. Oldofredi returned 
to his place, sword in hand; his face was white with 
rage, his brows were knit in fury. 

At the next signal, he precipitated himself brutally on 
his enemy, without feint, or any sort of artifice of fenc- 
ing, apparently intending to cut open his head. But be- 
fore his weapon could reach its aim, the point of San- 
giorgio’s sword cut his lower lip, and cut his cheek open 
in an upward stroke as far as the temple. 

The four seconds threw themselves between the com- 
batants, and the surgeons ran toward them. 





_ — ok aw, —_—en ie — "<» Sls ee 





* ™ 


156 MATILDE SERAO a 


“Halt!” cried Casteliorte, lowering: hive se sword be- 
tween the two combatants, They pocise’. ad resumed 
their furmer places. 

Olderrek. 2 Roe pal. wee exiling: Sangiorgio 
nacre gansta oe ee 

“he oeael” again come “iy earned. Sengiorgio. 
his ce apni, The WR Gt te Sekt aimed di- 
rently at CAdolved!’s ieee. fool at bis onpeeeret vith 
so furious and freree a stare that Oldofredi remarked it. 

“A vous!’ cried Castelforte. 

This time Oldefredi sprang at Sangiorgio, who Te- 
ceived him motionless, with extended arm, without par- 
rying; but he met the stroke with a thrust so neat and 


THE'SECONDS THR d- 
vAALg) Tas thai aUnateas eee ile 


“Haltf¥om an Original Drawing by Arthur Crisp — 
Lapucci and Bomba ran to refasten Oldofredi’s sword. 


. “A fine thrust!” murmured Castelforte. 

” Sangiorgio had recovered all his serenity. A amile of 
gratified pride Whuminated his face. Oidefredi reiurned 
to his place, eword im hand; bis face wae othive with 
tage, his brows were knit in fury. 

4 Vie Mert signal, he precipitated tixmadif brutally on 
hie acets, hieee: faint, or any sort of artifice of fenc- 
ing, agpelet> itpaiag te cut open his hed. But be- 
fore hin weapet sce Seek fie ete, che poimt of San- 
ginnge's srerd wis ts Sees py. aed eut his cheek open 
iss ast qprard struite wx “ax ae Se taper 

The four seconds threw tasmewlegs between the com- 
batants, and the surgeons ran toward them. 








THE CONQUEST OF ROME 157 


The wounded man was lifted to a stretcher, sur- 
rounded by the six men; Sangiorgio remained alone, half 
dazed and nearly stripped, in the falling rain. 


As they were passing through the Porta del Popolo, on 
the way home, Sangiorgio heard confusedly Castleforte 
say to the surgeon: 

“How many stitches were you obliged to take?” 

“Ten.” 

“How long will be he laid up?” 

“About twenty days—unless fever develops.” 

“By Jove! what a fine stroke!” Scalia interrupted, puf- 
fing furiously at his cigar. 

“And he will have a scar!” added Castelforte, laughing. 
“He won’t forget this duel soon.” 

The surgeon left them at the San Giacomo hospital, 
after making an appointment to sign the certificate of 
the duel. Sangiorgio began to come out of his trance- 
like state. 

“Are you hungry?” Scalia inquired. 

“He should be, he deserves it,” Castelforte interposed. 

Both men smiled complacently. 

While they were on the dueling ground, these two 
seconds had not embraced their principal, through a 
sentiment of delicacy; but now they gave free vent to 
their feeling of satisfaction. All coldness and ceremony 
had disappeared; they looked at Sangiorgio affection- 
ately, and spoke of him with loving pride, as of a be- 
loved son who has successfully passed a difficult exam- 
ination. Castelforte went so far as to pat his shoulder— 


158 MATILDE SERAO 


an unheard-of familiarity on the part of this grand seign- 
eur. They caressed him with eyes and with voice, proud 
of his courage; they said the kindest things to him, all 
of which he received quietly. 

His excited nerves were now relaxed, and he was con- 
scious of a craving for the comforts of physical life— 
he wished to eat, to drink, to sleep for hours in a warm 
bed. He smiled proudly at his seconds, having put out 
of his mind all unpleasant remembrance of the duel, the 
gloomy Acqua Acetosa, and the livid face of his adver- 
sary, slashed by a wound whence the blood flowed in a 
crimson stream. He rested on his triumph, his face 
serene, his eyes radiant, his lips half open in an almost 
childish smile. 

The luncheon at the Caffé di Roma was loud and gay. 
Castelforte or Scalia filled Sangiorgio’s glass every other 
minute, and he ate and drank enough for four, nodding 
at his seconds, laughing with them at the thought of 
Oldofredi’s anger—more bitter to him, no doubt, than 
the pain of the wound itself. By the time dessert ar- 
rived, their gayety knew no bounds. 

“At first,” said Scalia, “I feared for you, my dear 
friend. Your adversary was strong and courageous, and 
has had wide experience. You were young, without ex- 
perience, and so—I felt anxious, which was very nat- 
ural.” 

“That is more than Oldofredi was!” said Castelforte. 

“He seemed to me, on the ground, to be rather in- 
clined to trifle,” Sangiorgio observed. 

“Oldofredi never trifles,” said Scalia sententiously. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 159 


“It is not necessary to pay any heed to his posing. I 
assure you that at the third attack he was furious, and 
he went at you, my friend, with a fixed intention to 
break your head. Ye gods! What a stroke!” 

“What a stroke!” echoed Castleforte. 

And the same complimentary phrases began anew, a 
little monotonous and incoherent by this time, with a 
hundred repetitions of the same thing, and a rehashing 
of the same details. 

The Honorable Melillo, who had lunched at the Co- 
lonne restaurant with the Honorable Cermignani, being 
anxious about the fate of his colleague from the Basi- 
licata, had come to learn what had happened. The fat 
Melillo, with radiant countenance, embraced Sangiorgio, 
while Cermignani remained standing, listening to the 
story of the combat in a heroic attitude, as if inspired by 
war-like anger. 

Bencini, the old deputy of the Right, the witty and 
clever Catholic, who was said to fear neither God nor 
the devil, talked animatedly at the end of the room with 
Gambara, the dean of the Conservative party. Bencini, 
curious and audacious as a woman, advanced to compli- 
ment Sangiorgio, for he had a profound antipathy for the 
stupid belligerency of Oldofredi. He shook with laugh- 
ter at the thought of the rage of the deputy from the 
Marches. 

“Ah!” he cried, “that braggart Oldofredi never will 
boast of this duel. And you say he had to have his 
cheek sewn up. It’s lucky this isn’t midsummer—he 
might go mad and bite!” 


160 MATILDE SERAO 


Everyone laughed. Scalia bought some roses of a 
flower girl; Castelforte described the wonderful stroke to 
Gambara, who smiled amiably, with the indulgence of an 
old parliamentarian for hard-working and courageous 
young deputies. 

Cermignani and Melillo laughed at Bencini’s jests; 
and when Sangiorgio went out to get into his landau, a 
little triumphal procession accompanied him. | 

The sun had come out, dispersing the rain-clouds; the 
carriage stood by the curbstone, and Melillo insisted on 
getting into it with Sangiorgio. 

As they proceeded along the Corso, they were met with 
bows and smiles, and friendly greetings from the throng 
of strollers who were taking the air while waiting for 
the hour for Parliament to open. . 

In the Piazza Colonna the Deputy Carusio stopped the 
carriage, embraced Sangiorgio with fervor, and declared 
that he intended to go immediately to the Speaker and 
inform him of the good news. 

In the Chamber itself, the demonstration of approval 
was general. The Speaker maintained his usual dignity, 
but in his smile of greeting to Sangiorgio was some- 
thing cordial and affectionate—one might say grateful. 

The Honorable Freitag, with head sunk between his 
shoulders, his heavy body swaying like that of an ele- 
phant as he slowly paced the corridors, approached the 
Southern deputy, saying: 

“In the face, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes, Signor—in the face.” 

Others stopped him, shook hands with him, and asked 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 161 


for details of the duel. The seconds, and even Melillo, 
were surrounded, and questioned as to that marvelous 
final stroke. 

Those deputies with war-like inclinations listened with 
sparkling eyes and exclamations of astonishment; the 
more peaceful remained silent, thinking of this duel with 
as much wonder as if it had been a tournament. The 
cruel ones asked for descriptions of the wound, inquired 
as to the quantity of blood shed, how many stitches had 
been taken, and how large a scar would result. Others, 
more circumspect, but inspired by example, frankly 
owned to the antipathy they felt for the noisy, stupid, 
boasting Oldofredi, each harboring the recollection of 
some rankling word, gratuitous insult, or irritating bra- 
vado, borne in silence in order to avoid a scandal. 

The few that were Oldofredi’s friends stood aloof, con- 
tenting themselves with refraining from any congratu- 
lations to the happy conqueror. When Lapucci and 
Bomba entered the Chamber, about four o’clock, no one 
advanced to meet them, and only a few persons made 
perfunctory inquiries as to Oldofredi’s condition, in a 
tone of contemptuous pity. They felt themselves in- 
cluded for the time being, in the unpopularity of their 
principal, tossing on his bed, his head bandaged, and 
burning with fever. 

The enthusiasm tor Sangiorgio lasted all day, aug- 
menting still more at dinner-time. Bewildered, con- 
fused, and still somewhat excited, but preserving an out- 


ward calm, he let everyone say and do whatever he 
11 


- 162 MATILDE SERAO 


pleased, smiled on everyone, and greatly enjoyed this 
new popularity. 

After dinner, he went to the Costanzi Theater, and 
occupied an orchestra chair. The opera was Les Hugue- 
nots, with which he was unacquainted. He listened to 
the music like one in a dream. Behind him, two young 
men were talking of the duel and pointing him out as 
the person who had vanquished Oldofredi. They spoke 
in an undertone but Sangiorgio could hear all that they 
said. 

Between the acts, he felt suddenly the magnetic glance 
of a pair of eyes fixed ardently upon him. He looked 
up: Elena Fiammanti was in her box. Mechanically 
he ascended the stairs, opened her door, and in the dark 
shadow of the back of the box he felt two soft arms 
clasping his neck, while a tender voice murmured in his 
Cate. 

“Oh, Francesco, Francesco! why did you fight on my 
account? It was not worth the trouble!” 

When the opera was over—after receiving at least a 
dozen visits in her box—Elena descended the stairs lean- 
ing tenderly on Sangiorgio’s arm, her eyes sparkling 
with pride and pleasure. At the door of the coat-room 
they met the gigantic Paulo putting on his topcoat. San- 
giorgio felt as if suddenly sobered from intoxication, and 
longed to throw himself on the ample breast of the gal- 
lant man, for it was he who had advised the novice to 
aim at the face, and at the crucial moment Sangiorgio 
had thought of nothing but that advice. 


CHAPTER XI 


AN ESSAY IN DIPLOMACY 


GRAVE question had come up two days after 
the national holiday. 
In a small Italian town, on the Sunday de- 
voted to patriotic celebration and rejoicing, 
certain members of the municipal council had mani- 
fested the most advanced republican sentiments. The 
monarchist members had immediately tendered their 
resignation en masse, and had sent indignant telegrams 
to their deputies, to the newspapers, and to influential 
men. The affair, all in a moment, had become very 
serious. 

It was midsummer, and the sessions at the Chamber 
had become dull and tiresome; foreign politics had 
lapsed into their usual summer lethargy, and no impor- 
tant bills were to be voted on. This new excitement, 
therefore, sudden and unexpected, awakened passionate 
interest. The love-making between the Chamber and 
the Ministry had cooled off considerably, as is always 
the case with a passion equally shared and gratified. 

The new debate was the crack of the whip that awak- 
ened this drowsy circle of mutual admirers. Once more 
they felt the inclination to argue, dispute, and insult; to 
wage a war of suspicion, of political lies and private 


calumny. The person most bitterly attacked was the 
163 


164 MATILDE SERAO 


Minister of the Interior, who, obedient to his cherished 
ideal of Liberty, had objected to the summary dismissal 
of the whole misguided municipal council. 

This Minister was a man of profound thought, high 
character, and liberal ideas. He was accustomed to con- 
sider political questions with great breadth of view, and, 
with the generosity of a superior mind, he always main- 
tained that liberty of conscience should be respected. 
In private conversation with his friends, he laughed at 
the importance accorded to this tempest in a teapot. 
quoting the words of the monatti of Milan to Renzo 
Tramaglino: “Fear nothing—it will not be these little 
rascals, disguised as Erostratus, that will burn the Tem- 
ple of Law.” He said to everyone that the affair was 
not serious, and his tranquil serenity was in marked con- . 
trast to the excitement of those that sought to interview 
him. 

But, in spite of his efforts, the disturbance increased 
and threatened a crisis. All the malcontents, the am- 
bitious, the mediocre, the envious, agitated, held meet- 
ings, talked and argued. They shouted in the cafés, 
made orations in the restaurants, discoursed at the beer- 
saloons, hatched plots in the furnished lodgings of all 
the provincial deputies, and gathered with the myste- 
rious air of conspirators around the little tables set out 
in summer-time by Ronzi and Singer, the pastry-cooks, 
in front of their shop in the Piazza Colonna. 

At the railway station, every train brought returning 
deputies, carrying their traveling-bags—the small bags 
used for hasty journeys, in which the wife packs four 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 165 


shirts, six handkerchiefs, a pair of slippers, and a cake 
ot soap. 

Three hundred and fifty deputies had assembled in 
Rome—an exceptional number, rarely gathered in the 
most important winter sessions—and each of these three 
hundred and fifty men hoped, waited, wished and prob- 
ably believed that he would become a Minister after the 
fall of the present cabinet. 

The Minister of the Interior—a strong, wise and lib- 
eral soul—thought best to seem to ignore this general 
excitement. 

“There will be no crisis,’ he replied calmly to such 
friends as questioned him. 

He well knew the political world, however, and the 
men that composed it. He well knew that the Prime 
Minister was on his side, and also the six other min- 
isters, and that this group of resolute and powerful 
men would not allow themselves to be deposed sim- 
ply because the public authorities in an unimportant 
town had refused to sign an address to the King, and 
had raised the tri-colored flag. 

He was fully aware of the thirst for power of his eight 
colleagues, of their struggles to attain it, their desperate 
tenacity and their passionate attachment to the blue 
portfolio. He smiled at the thought of the strength of 
the weak; he smiled, sure of his own victory. 

But his friends advised him to be on his guard and 
to consider the gravity of the situation, pointing out 
the fact that in this great political caldron were boiling 
and seething all varieties of Italian temperament. 


166 MATILDE SERAO 


The Sicilians abandoned themselves to enthusiasm, in 
which was a mingling of irony and good sense; the 
Neapolitans shouted and gesticulated; the Romans, pru- 
dent and temporizing, waited for the propitious moment 
to act; the Tuscans laughed in their sleeves, assumed a 
Machiavellian air of craft, while mocking at themselves 
and at everyone else; the Lombards held aloof from all 
others, in aristocratic exclusiveness; the Piedmontese 
went and came, made a great commotion without say- 
ing anything, understanding one another by nods and 
winks. But the most ardent, the most excited, the fierc- 
est, were the representatives from the smaller provinces 
—the Abruzzi, the Marches, the Romagnas, the Cam- 
pania, the Calabria—representatives for whom politics 
is a grand passion, who regard it as the greatest earthly 
power, and revel in it as in a generous wine. 

In the midst of all this tumult, the men from the 
Basilicata were silent, did not form themselves into a 
group, asked for nothing, answered no queries, but re- 
mained consistently cold and correct in their public de- 
meanor. 

The Minister of the Interior, that man of sterling in- 
tegrity, felt secure; he never had had occasion to fear 
anything, so he continued to smile. When he entered 
the Chamber, on the day when the great question was 
to be discussed, a prolonged murmur swept along the 
benches. He noticed it, but being strong and self-con- 
tained in all things, great or small, he was shrewd 
enough not to look around him, nor to raise his eyes to 
the galleries. He understood, however, that this affair 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 167 


was more serious than he had supposed. The evening 
before, he had said to the Prime Minister, uncon- 
cernedly: 

“They are making a tremendous fuss about this affair. 
of the municipal revolt.” 

“Nothing but midsummer madness.” 

“Then you agree with me?” 

“Certainly I do,” the Prime Minister had replied, with- 
out inquiring as to details. 

“Do you think Mario Tasca’s speech will be im- 
portant?” 

“As much so as his speeches usually are.” 

That was all the Prime Minister would say to him. 
His other colleagues maintained a strict reserve, save 
Vargas, the thin, dried-up old Minister of Fine Arts, 
consumed by burning ambition, who made only one re- 
mark, of slight importance, to which the Minister of the 
Interior made no reply. But now, in the presence of this 
demonstrative assemblage, he fully comprehended the 
gravity of the situation. 

While he was preparing his documents, he guessed, 
from the volume of sound going on about him, that at 
least four hundred deputies were in the hall. He threw 
a quick glance at the diplomatic gallery. The beauti- 
ful Countess di Santaninfa, fair and dreamy, bent her 
large, melancholy eyes upon the amphitheater; the 
Countess di Malgra, a fascinating blonde, attired in black, 
looked attentively at the gathering below her; the public 
gallery was full, and in the press gallery a triple row of 
heads leaned eagerly forward. 


168 MATILDE SERAO 


“Ah! they smell the powder of battle!” said the Min- 
ister to himself. 

He was about to address his fellow Ministers, but 
they appeared so indifferent that he remained silent. 
The great hall had become more quiet, but the assembly 
presented an aspect universally hard and fixed—a solid 
body of four hundred silent and attentive men. 

At three o’clock, precisely, Mario Tasca, a deputy of 
the Right, rose and began to speak from his place in 
the last row of benches. He was an old diplomatist, with 
a pink-and-white complexion and a graceful figure, and 
spoke in flowing phrases, accompanied by sweeping 
gestures. His discourse ran on and on, without hesi- 
tation, without stopping, like the song of a nightingale; 
the orator gazed upward, like a dramatic tenor sure of 
his notes. But beneath this mild demeanor the knowing 
ones perceived a sharp rebuke. While he spoke in vague 
and general terms, he nevertheless managed to convey 
the impression that certain ideas and _ institutions, 
which heretofore had been sacred and which no one had 
dared to criticise, had been grievously assailed. He 
made his charges in a tone of moderation, mentioning no 
names; nor did he set forth the exact facts, contenting 
himself with making a direct appeal to the conscience. 

The Minister of the Interior listened attentively; the 
Prime Minister appeared to be taking notes; all the 
other Ministers looked grave; the deputies turned toward 
Tasca, in order to hear all his remarks; the occupants 
of the public gallery leaned over the railing; the two 
Countesses, blonde and brunette, seemed to listen with 


- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 169 


delight to the flowing, melodious tones of the Tuscan 
deputy. 

He spoke a whole hour in this way, but his closing re- 
marks and gestures were more animated. A long mur- 
mur of satisfaction and approval followed his peroration. 

The Minister of the Interior sought the eyes of the 
Prime Minister, but that gentleman went on with his 
writing. So he rose, and began his reply in a tone of 
equal moderation, reducing the question to its just pro- 
portions, smoothing over the facts, and avoiding all high- 
sounding phrases and long words. ‘He spoke quietly, 
trying to read the effect of his words in the faces of his 
auditors, but all looked frowning and dissatisfied; what 
they had wished for and expected was a session full of 
spirited debate and hot argument—this moderation was 
far from interesting. 

Vainly did he lavish his most specious reasoning and 
all the ingenuities of his mind; he was not in harmony 
with the prevailing spirit, and public disapproval of 
his remarks became more manifest every moment. 

A glacial silence greeted the end of his discourse. 
Niccolo Ferro, the great orator of the Extreme Left, 
asked for the floor. The Minister frowned; he felt that 
here was the danger. 

Ferro, the Radical deputy, with a clear voice and cool 
manner, spoke in phrases as cutting as steel blades. He 
threw a new light upon the situation as presaging the 
dawn of a new era; the manifestation of the municipal 
council was a sign of the times; who would dare to vi- 
olate the liberty of conscience by punishing such a mani- 


170 MATILDE SERAO 


festation? A councilor is a citizen free to think accord- 
ing to his convictions, and to act as he thinks. Ancient 
institutions do not decline by the mere act of men; 
modern ideas and progress are the cause of their down- 
fall. 

Niccolo Ferro then declared openly that he was both 
pleased and displeased with the Minister’s speech: dis- 
pleased because the audacity and courage of those brave 
men had been ridiculed; and pleased, because he felt 
well assured that notwithstanding the hallucinations of 
those who held the reins of power, no act of repression 
toward those citizens would take place. 

The Minister of the Interior understood the purport 
of these words, and he looked at Niccolo Ferro, his friend, 
with a kind glance, unmingled with reproach. He felt 
the astonishment of the Chamber at the temerity of the 
Radical deputy; he realized that they wished to force 
him into an equivocal position from which he could not 
escape. He could neither declare himself at one with 
Niccolo Ferro, nor oppose himself directly against him. 
What! he at one with the Republicans; he, a Minister 
of the Crown! How should he reply? The Prime Min- 
ister alone, with his shrewdness and goodfellowship, 
could save the situation, and put back in their places the 
wordy Tasca and the impudent Ferro. But the old Pre- 
mier read a letter placidly, as calm as if he were in the 
silence of his own study. 

The floor was given to the Honorable Sangiorgio, who, 
in his very first words, began a fierce attack upon the 
Cabinet, saying that the facts of the case in question 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 171 


were very serious; that during a whole year the greatest 
disorder had existed in the management of home affairs, 
there was no one that guided matters, no authority any- 
where; all officials acted at their own discretion, receiv- 
ing no orders from anyone; and that this culpable un- 
concern, these ultra-liberal theories would carry the 
country to its ruin. 

Sangiorgio enumerated the increasing number of po- 
litical associations; he called attention to the fact that 
socialists held meetings in all localities, and named a 
prefect who had been present at a banquet where the 
King’s health had not been drunk—and added that the 
Minister of the Interior, who was perfectly cognizant 
of this affair, had not removed that prefect from office. 

The orator went on to say that everything was done 
helter-skelter and without system: that no energetic 
circulars of instruction were sent out from Rome, nor 
were any strong and salutary measures carried out with- 
in it. Important communications remained unanswered, 
and the Government amused itself in making philosophic 
or moral deductions! 

The excited listeners shouted their approval of these 
remarks. The young deputy spoke in a hard voice, in 
short phrases and with such exactness of statement that 
every sentence told: it was an act of direct accusation, 
like the address of a public prosecutor to a malicious and 
obstinate magistrate. Sangiorgio had a rugged physi- 
ognomy, a look of firmness on his tense face; he did not 
smile, nor did he gesticulate, or resort to any of the 
tricks and graces of an orator. His speech was a recital 


172 MATILDE SERAO 


of facts, nothing but facts, and yet more facts; and after 
each statement he added, “But that is not all—there is 
more to follow;” and these words, repeated again and 
again, with the monotony of a tragic Chorus, made a 
deep and unexpected impression. 

The very air was charged with electricity; no one read 
or wrote now; all heads were turned toward the speaker. | 
In the diplomatic gallery sat the perennially beautiful 
Lalla d’Ariccia; her appearance was the sure barometer 
of crises, as she never attended the Chamber except to 
witness the fall of a Cabinet. Louisa Catalani, in a lace 
frock and mantilla, leaned over the railing, and Angelica 
Vargas listened gravely, her face alight with interest and 
curiosity. 

After summing up all that he had said in one brief 
final charge, Sangiorgio, without waiting for anyone to 
make a reply, read the following: “I move that the 
House, disapproving of the home policy of the Ministry, 
do now proceed with the business of the day.—Francesco 
Sangiorgio.” 

An instant of silence followed, in which was audible 
the deep bass tones of the Honorable Scheffer, growling: 

“Thunder and lightning!” 

Then such a cheer and clamor arose that the Speaker 
rang his bell in vain for order fully five minutes. Argu- 
ment and discussions sounded on all sides in the Cham- 
ber, in the semicircle, on the benches and stairs, and in 
the galleries. 

The Minister of the Interior—strong, honest man that 
he was!—was compelled to admire the skill and vigor 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 173 


of Sangiorgio’s attack upon him, but he began to feel 
some apprehension. So vigorous an attack, made by a 
deputy well known for his ministerial sympathies, ag- 
gravated the situation to the verge of actual peril. 

The defence now lay only in the hands of the chief, 
the old parliamentarian—the Prime Minister. But the 
Minister of the Interior felt a sudden suspicion. The 
Prime Minister remained silent, continuing to write and 
to stroke his beard with his left hand. 

The Minister of the Interior controlled himself by a 
strong effort, and appeared calm, though very pale. His 
suspicion was well grounded, then. He felt that he had 
been betrayed and abandoned, and that his associates 
wished to get rid of him. The base stratagem had suc- 
ceeded, and they now wished to cut him off, as if he were 
a decomposing limb—and the whole Chamber approved 
the operation! 

When the Speaker gave him the floor, that he might 
reply, he replied in a clear and tranquil voice: 

“I have nothing to say; I accept the Sangiorgio mo- 
tion.” 

There was a majority of thirty votes against him. 
The Minister of the Interior had fallen! 

A week later, an official newspaper announced: 

“At the present writing, we are able to declare that, 
in the reorganization of the Cabinet, Don Silvio Vargas 
will be transferred from the Fine Arts to the Depart- 
ment of the Interior. The Honorable Sangiorgio, who 
has been solicited to join in the new combination, has re- 
fused, and has left Rome for a visit to the Basilicata.” 


CHAPTER XII 
THE ONLY WOMAN 


FUNEREAL atmosphere; an interior whose 
dimness is barely relieved by the blue flame of 
the pagan torches and the pale yellow light of 
Christian tapers; an odor of the tomb; sobbing 

music; a throng of people in deepest black, lost in the 
shadows of the great stone walls; and in that atmos- 
phere, that dim light, amid that noble music in the deep 
shadows, all eyes filled again and again with tears. 

Sangiorgio, sitting motionless in his place, felt his 
heart pierced with a languorous sadness, when suddenly 
he felt a thrill, and a strong impulse to turn around. 

He saw, at only a short distance, that sweet, that ex- 
quisite woman, Angelica Vargas, dressed in black, in a 
style of mourning as ceremonious as such an occasion 
demanded, in the Pantheon, which was now consecrated 
to the glory and the death of the Hero—Victor Em- 
manuel. * 

Her eyes were fixed upon a candle, and she seemed to 
hear and see nothing, absorbed in sad thoughts, plunged 
in mournful dreams. She sat near a column, and at first 
she essayed to read from her prayerbook the service for 
the dead, but the book had fallen on her knees, and 


* This refers to the ceremony of transferring the remains of 


Victor Emmanuel II to the Pantheon. 
174 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 175 


her inert hands had not sufficient energy to lift it again. 

To Sangiorgio that sad face appeared divine, with its 
pearl-like pallor intensified by the dark veil, the lips 
parted in prayer, the eyes fixed in mystic contemplation. 
And the bluish light of the lamps, the metallic gleam 
of the torches, the wailing chords that seemed sad 
enough to soften those old stone walls of Rome—all 
were, to his mind, in some mysterious way connected 
with this woman; she herself personified that mournful 
winter day, sad and sunless; she was the moral source 
of all the tears shed around her; she was the abyss of 
sorrow, which no human griefs could ever fill; and in 
his manly heart a sentiment of mingled love and pity 
sprang into being, and then it grew and flourished and 
waxed strong. 

She, all unconscious, gave herself up to her feminine 
fancies, in that short hour of freedom and forgetfulness. 
At times the music rolled forth with an intense expres- 
sion, a strain more moving; then she was thrilled for a 
moment, returning again to her interrupted reverie, her 
eyelids showing the pale violet tint left by recent tears. 

A wonderful change of feeling took place in Sangi- 
orgio’s heart as he contemplated that sweet face, on 
which the finger of grief had laid its mark. The sadness 
that possessed her little by little came to dominate his 
own feelings, to the point of utter absorption in, and 
sharing of, her emotion. 

He was unconscious of any surprise at realizing that 
his own personality seemed to disappear and be merged 
into that of another. And it was not pity alone that he 


176 MATILDE SERAO 


felt: pity is a personal sentiment, an individual formula, 
capable of analysis. He suffered from a sensation of 
physical anguish; tears, which he could not shed, burned 
his eyes; he forgot his own personality in a mental sea 
of sympathetic pain, without beginning or end. 

A cloud of subtly sweet incense floated through the 
temple, its spirals rising from the altars to the dome, 
lighter and lighter, thinner and thinner, floating ever 
upward, like prayers mounting to Heaven. The incense, 
too, seemed to partake of the savor of tears, and its per- 
fume affected the nerves with a kind of voluptuousness 
of grief. The women bowed their heads beneath this 
mournful aromatic kiss. Sangiorgio wished to approach 
Angelica, but a singular feeling of shyness restrained 
him, and meanwhile the incense went on burning in the 
sacred censers. 

A bell rang faintly. Angelica slipped from her chair 
to the marble pavement, hid her face in her hands, and 
seemed no more than a mass of mourning draperies 
sunk upon the ground, forgotten, lost, desolate. 

Sangiorgio did not kneel, nor pray, nor even bow his 
head, but he was swayed by the prostrate grief of the 
woman, and overcome by the same sounds that affected 
her. 

A line of priests, with lighted tapers, was ranged 
around the catafalque; a silver crucifix stood before the 
coffin itself. 

Presently rose a strident, penetrating voice, a voice 
that neither chanted nor prayed, but cried despairingly, 
“Libera, libera, libera me, Signore!” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME V9 


The Christian prayer, the mournful invocation, made 
the sweet Angelica raise her eyes, and an ardent desire 
expressed itself on her transfigured face. Now her con- 
fused thoughts took exact form and dwelt on the De- 
liverance! The hero who lay in the sepulcher, to whom 
the highest funeral honors were being paid, had found a 
glorious deliverance, and, freed from the weight of a 
crown, from the burden of power, from the duties and 
responsibilities of earthly royalty, had found rest in 
eternal peace. 

“As sleeps the King, so let me sleep, O God!” was 
Angelica’s prayer. “Deliver my soul as Thou hast de- 
livered the soul of the King, O Father of Mercies! 
If deliverance is to be found only through death, then 
let me die. O God, libera me!” And at this moment of 
anguished appeal, the sweet Angelica raised her hands 
to heaven, and burning tears flowed down her cheeks. 

Sangiorgio divined her fervent prayer, and that earn- 
est petition found an echo in his own breast. A kind of 
intoxication, an ecstatic joy, pure and exalted, resulted 
from this consciousness of a desire in common. Seeing 
Angelica so weak and exhausted, he yielded to the pres- 
sure of deep emotion; he bowed his proud head and 
wept—for love! 


With her fair face half buried in a cluster of white 
roses, whose rich perfume she inhaled deeply, Angelica 
Vargas listened to a conversation between her husband 
and Sangiorgio. 


They had been talking politics for an hour, or rather, 
12 


178 MATILDE SERAO 


Silvio Vargas had held forth alone, half reclining upon 
a divan, puffing at a terrible Tuscan cigar, his eyes 
fixed on the floral decorations painted on the ceiling of 
his drawing-room. He discoursed in his nasal voice, 
speaking in brief phrases, sending clouds of smoke into 
the air, while with his free hand he twirled his heavy 
moustache, which, like his hair, had remained brown, 
despite his years. 

Age did not show in that dry and spare old man, ex- 
cept for the fan-like spread of fine wrinkles at the corners 
of his eyes, and two furrows at each side of his mouth 
when he smiled. But his slender body was as strong 
and firm as oak logs that lie for years in the water be- 
fore being fit for use. When he fixed in his right eye a 
monocle suspended by a black ribbon, his face took on 
an expression of almost youthful vivacity. 

When Angelica had heard Sangiorgio’s name an- 
nounced, after luncheon, she had risen to retire to her 
own apartments. But her husband, while folding one 
newspaper and opening another, requested her not to go 
in a few brief words, as if he wished to be obeyed. She 
remained standing, near a vase of cineraria, after bowing 
to the newcomer. 

Her slender, youthful figure was no longer attired in 
mourning robes, but showed to advantage in a gray 
gown with large folds, cut in a half-monastic style. A 
heavy cord encircled her waist, and her delicate hands 
were half hidden in the ample sleeves. From time to 
time she turned toward the men to approve with a smile 
or a glance some sharp sally from her husband or a 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 179 


remark by Sangiorgio, although she busied herself with 
her flowers, examining each plant with fond attention, 
wiping dust from the leaves, here and there cutting off 
a dry twig. Her white fingers flitted over the flowers, 
which appeared to transform the formal drawing-room 
into a springtime bower—those white fingers as graceful 
and dimpled as a child’s. 

As she leaned over the plants, the nape of her white 
neck was visible, shaded by the curved line of her dark 
hair, which was dressed high. The traces of tears had 
disappeared from her eyelids, and her gentle face beamed 
placidly. Once she looked interrogatively at her hus- 
band’s hard face, but with a slight sign he ordered her 
to remain in the room. 

The care of her plants finished, she seated herself at a 
window and inhaled the fragrance of her roses, her usu- 
ally pale cheeks slightly flushed. 

The room was strewn with newspapers, still smelling 
of printers’ ink; the carpet was littered with multi- 
colored wrappers, which had been hastily torn from the 
journals. But Angelica did not pick them up nor touch 
the newspapers; she did not even look at them, though 
she pushed away one or two wrappers with an instinct- 
ive desire for neatness. She kept pressing the roses to 
her lips and cheeks. 

Francesco had come to this house, in the Piazza dell’ 
Apollinare, at the invitation of Silvio Vargas. The new 
Minister of the Interior had approached him on the peri- 
style of the Pantheon, had slipped an arm through his, 
and said a few words to him in an undertone. Then he 


180 MATILDE SERAO 


had asked the deputy to come to see him—not at the Par- 
liament House, no—at his own residence, after luncheon. 
The Minister wished to have a private talk with him— 
hang it! Why did he never come to call there? 

“To-morrow, then?” said the deputy, hesitatingly. 

“To-morrow! You are dreaming!” Vargas replied. 
“No, come to-day.” And he had left Sangiorgio to re- 
join his wife. 

The deputy arrived at one o’clock, fearing that he was 
too early, though the cordiality of his host immediately 
reassured him. But, while the Minister expatiated at 
length on men and events, the deputy followed with his 
eyes the supple and sinuous movements of the fair An- 
gelica. 

“Will you smoke?” said Silvio Vargas, offering cigars, 
while he continued to chew the end of his Tuscan weed. 

Sangiorgio looked toward the lady. 

“Tt will not annoy Donna Angelica,” said the Minister 
dryly. 

But the deputy refrained from smoking, in spite of a 
gracious smile from Angelica. Seated near a table, he 
spoke little, for the old parliamentarian approved of at- 
tentive listeners. 

Silvio Vargas adored politics with the ardor of a youth 
of twenty; but to-day something in the great game had 
gone wrong with him, and in his reproaches, his disgust, 
his nervous anger, was revealed the long-standing pas- 
sion that consumed him. Sangiorgio, in listening to him, 
fancied he recognized his own thoughts, dreams, and 
ambitions. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 181 


From time to time, Silvio Vargas, in looking at San- 
giorgio, suppressed the sneer which usually marked two 
furrows on his sallow cheeks, and smiled at the young 
man almost affectionately. He did not forget that his 
predecessor in office had fallen from power through a 
speech and a motion of this same young deputy! He 
did not forget his refusal to make one of the new combi- 
nation. He never could express his gratitude, but at the 
reopening of Parliament he had treated the young man 
in a most friendly way, and often consulted him with an 
air at once cordial and deferential. 

“But, in your heart, politics and power really bore you, 
do they not?” said Sangiorgio, after a short silence. 

“No,” Vargas replied frankly. “They do not bore 
me; on the contrary, they please me. I have al- 
ways desired power. But the Opposition disgusts 
me—so much hypocrisy, stupidity, lying, brutality, 
and bad faith! Where is the loyal, audacious, imp- 
placable, even cruel Opposition? Instead of frank and 
open attack, we have back-stairs gossip; instead of an 
honest fight, they crawl out of sight; and instead of 
legitimate debate, they resort to low trickery.” 

“The men of to-day are without largeness of mind,” 
said Sangiorgio. 

“No, no—not altogether! By heavens, sir! I once be- 
longed to the Opposition myself! Do you remember, 
Angelica, when I was in Opposition?” 

“Yes, I remember,” she replied sweetly, raising her 
head from her roses. 

“I was a devil in those days! I never gave my op- 


182 MATILDE SERAO 


ponents any rest, I assure you. No truce to anyone! 
But now I am growing lazy. I don’t feel like fighting; I 
prefer to look on, though all this brigandage makes my 
blood boil. How you attacked the Government at that 
famous session, Sangiorgio! Were you there, An- 
gelica?” 

“Yes, I was there.” 

“And I owe it to you that I am now Minister of the 
Interior,” said Vargas, with feeling. 

“Oh, no!” said Sangiorgio, smiling. 

“Yes, yes! The Prime Minister never would have had 
the courage to break openly with his colleague! I am 
surprised that he spoke of it to you; no one dreamed 
of it, not even myself.” 

“The Prime Minister never mentioned the matter to 
me.” 

“What? You did not know what was coming?” 

“T knew nothing.” 

“There was no understanding between you?” 

“None.” 

“The deuce! You are a remarkable fellow!” Vargas 
exclaimed. 

He looked at Sangiorgio admiringly. The latter 
laughed mechanically, a little embarrassed, but he ob- 
served that Angelica’s face had lost its serenity, and 
that she looked tired. 

“Come to the Chamber with me, Sangiorgio,” said the 
Minister, rising to go out. 

“Shall you return early?” asked the young wife, arous- 
ing herself from her reverie by the window. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 183 


“No. First, I shall go to the Chamber, then to the 
Senate, and after that I must go to a meeting of the 
Cabinet to sign a prefectoral appointment.” 

“Shall you return by seven o’clock?” 

“T don’t know.” 

“Shall I call for you at the Chamber?” 

“No. Go and take a drive to the Villa Borghese, out 
in the country—wherever you please. It will be useless 
to come to Montecitorio. I shall dine there after I have 
finished my work. This prefectoral affair is very serious, 
Sangiorgio; I will explain it to you as we go along. If 
a letter or a telegram should arrive for me, send it to 
me at the Chamber, or the Senate, or at the Cabinet 
meeting. I expect important news. Come, my dear 
fellow.” 

His orders had been given briefly, concisely, in the 
tone of one accustomed to obedience, to his wife, the 
servants, and his secretary, who had just entered the 
room. At that moment Vargas had the elasticity and 
vigor of twenty years. He went into an adjoining room 
with his secretary, and talked with him there a moment. 

Francesco and Angelica were left alone, he standing, 
she with her head bent as it was when she was praying 
at the Pantheon, and her fingers toying idly with the 
silken girdle around her waist. 

Neither spoke for a moment, and that interval seemed 
like a prolonged musical vibration, full of throbbing 
meaning. Suddenly she raised her lovely sad eyes to 
his and clasped her hands. 

“Why did you wish my husband to become Minister 


184 MATILDE SERAO 


of the Interior?” she asked, in a voice trembling with 
emotion. 

But at that moment Vargas reéntered with his topcoat 
and hat on, still gnawing the end of his extinct cigar. 
His secretary followed him, carrying a portfolio full of 
papers. 

“Will you have a rose?” said Angelica suddenly to 
her husband, approaching him as if to fasten a flower 
in his coat. 

“Are you mad?” cried Vargas, pushing away the white 
hand brusquely. “Do you wish the whole Opposition 
to laugh at me? A Minister with a rose! My caricature 
would be in all the newspapers!” 

Angelica drew back. She looked quickly at Sangior- 
gio, but she did not offer him a rose. 


A lowering sky, covered with heavy gray clouds, hang- 
ing black over the Tusculan hills; a yellowish-brown, 
undulating landscape; two black hedges, dry and prickly, 
without a leaf or a blossom; a little inn, with a rude sign 
—a pulcinella, or female Punch, drinking from a cup, 
with three black mouths arranged in a triangle—win- 
dows and doors closed tight; the large building where 
the Widow Mangani dispenses hospitality to the Roman 
people during the delightful season of lamb and tripe; 
a carter lying flat on his stomach in his wagon, sound 
asleep; and from time to time heavy drops of rain falling 
on the earth. | 

Near the church of St. Agnes, a cardinal’s carriage 
came along the road, returning from the catacombs; a 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 185 


few priests walked slowly along the side path; at a dis- 
tance were two carabineers on horseback, sitting erect, 
wrapped in their black mantles; a penetrating odor filled 
the air, that peculiar odor of the Roman Campagna, 
which steals into the blood like a subtle poison. 

A soft, mild breeze was blowing; a lost dog trotted 
along the road, his tail between his legs, looking anxious- 
ly at every passer with the sad expression of a lost ani- 
mal—such was the picture that met Sangiorgio’s eyes 
on the last day of that winter, in the Via Nomentana. 
And over all hung the gloomy curtain of impending rain, 
the indescribable melancholy of a stormy twilight on the 
Roman Campagna. 

“There is the Ponte Nomentana,” said the coachman, 
pointing to the bridge with his whip. 

“Stop here, then; I wish to get out,” said Sangiorgio. 
“Wait here for me.” 

He climbed the little hill leading to the strange 
covered bridge, the wide arch of which spans the banks 
of the Aniene. 

Sangiorgio halted in the middle of the bridge, and 
leaned against the railing to gaze into the river. The 
water was deep and winding at this point, and flowed 
with great rapidity, increased at this season by the 
heavy winter rains; the stream looked silvery white, 
cold and dull. A number of little whirlpools were formed 
in its course—tiny circles with a central depression 
round which spread ever-widening ripples. 

Along the banks the earth was light-colored, but 


186 MATILDE SERAO 


without a plant or any vestige of verdure; and all around 
extended the dreary desert of the Campagna. 

The rain had not yet begun to fall, but the spray from 
the river and evening dampness had made the old bridge 
wet; in touching the railing and the walls, Sangiorgio 
felt the moisture, which had soiled the elbows of his 
coat. 

He gazed around at the plain, unbroken by the out- 
line of a man or a tree; the stream rippled on with the 
melancholy music of running water, and hastened to 
throw itself into the bosom of the Tiber. 

On the opposite bank the Via Nomentana formed a 
sharp angle and disappeared suddenly; in the middle of 
_a field stood a deserted, ruined cottage, without a roof; 
at a turn of the road was a neat little white building, 
the Huntsman’s Inn, back of which a fine meadow ex- 
tended toward the stream. 

Near this point were groups of willows on the stony 
bank. A small boat floated on the water, made fast to a 
post by arope. The current boiled and bubbled around 
the boat, the roots of the willows, and the stones. 

Now the lowering sky appeared almost to touch the 
earth. While gazing intently at the horizon, Sangiorgio 
suddenly perceived a carriage, which had stopped near 
the Huntsman’s Inn, but which was turned in such a 
manner that he could not see either the horses or the 
coachman. 

Some one descended from the carriage, and then, far 
in the distance, he discerned a woman’s figure, slowly 
walking along the right bank of the river. Nearer and 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 187 


nearer she came, and presently he recognized the sweet 
lady he had seen weeping in the Pantheon. Alone, 
dressed in black, she walked slowly beside the stream, 
gazing into the water, her little feet making slight im- 
prints on the damp soil. 

As she drew nearer to Sangiorgio, he saw, fastened 
against the black background of her bodice, the cluster 
of roses that she had held and caressed in her drawing- 
room in the early afternoon. 

Two or three times she stopped, and looked up at the 
threatening sky, which appeared ready to fall upon the 
earth and smother it; she tried to descry the Tusculan 
hills, now enveloped in mist; then she resumed her 
walk so slowly that she hardly appeared to move at 
all. 

She did not raise her eyes to the great bridge, at the 
wide opening of which stood the man that had wept with 
her and for her. 

There was usually absolute solitude in this lonely 
spot, where no sound was heard but the rushing wind 
and the rippling water; Angelica believed herself to be 
as much alone as if she were in an empty church, praying 
to God. 

She stopped about fifty paces from the bridge, and 
leaned lightly against the stone stake to which the little 
boat was fastened. She seemed overcome by lassitude; 
perhaps it was only the fascination of the bubbling water 
that made her pause. 

A mass of black clouds rose from the horizon; the 
light faded rapidly from the face of heaven and earth. 


188 MATILDE SERAO 


Sangiorgio saw nothing but the form of that woman, 
motionless as a statue on the bank of the stream. 

But presently a sound was heard in the direction of 
the Via Nomentana—a sound of wheels and horses’ feet; 
something red and bright illuminated the gathering 
darkness. Under the lowered top of a Daumont car- 
riage, something white was visible—a handsome face, a 
royal countenance. The equipage crossed the bridge at 
a quick trot, and the Queen acknowledged the deputy’s 
salutation. Then the dazzling vision disappeared, like a 
flash of lightning, on the way to Rome. 

Sangiorgio turned again toward the river. 

The lady on the bank had heard nothing of all this. 
Lost in thought, she was unconscious of everything in 
the material world, even of the passing of the royal car- 
riage, whose red lights had for an instant made a kind of 
comet-like glare in the gray twilight. 

Angelica never raised her eyes from the cold waters 
of the Aniene. Presently she began to pluck the petals 
from one of her roses and throw them into the stream; 
then she pulled another to pieces; and, one by one, all 
the roses met the same fate, the fragant snowy petals 
being swept along the current toward Tivoli. 

She threw one last glance around the lonely country, 
and returned to her waiting carriage. Presently it 
crossed the bridge; Angelica did not perceive Sangior- 
gio, but he noticed that the fair and pensive lady still 
held to her breast the rose-stalks, now stripped of their 
petals. 


CHAPTER XIII 


ANGELICA DISCUSSES POLITICS 


EATED on his bench, of the Center, where he 
pretended to be writing letters, but where, in 
reality, he traced a single name twenty or 
thirty times on a sheet of paper, Sangiorgio 

distinctly saw Angelica Vargas sitting alone in the diplo- 
matic gallery, resting her arm on the velvet railing. 

A certain instinct had warned him of her presence, and 
he ventured to turn toward her and bow. She responded 
with a serious smile, and immediately turned away her 
head. 

He was seized with a desire to go up there at once and 
sit beside her, but doubted the propriety of making her 
so conspicuous to his colleagues. 

Soon, however, the desire became so strong that he 
rose, crossed the hall, and went out into the corridor, 
where he wandered about a moment or two, replying 
briefly to those who spoke to him of the University 
Reform Law. He lacked courage to mount those stairs, 
and, ashamed of his weakness, he was about to return 
to his place. 

As he passed the Ministerial bench, Silvio Vargas 
called him: : 

“Listen, Sangiorgio”— 


And he told him something about the Communal and 
189 


190 MATILDE SERAO 


Provincial Law, then under discussion for the third time. 

Silvio Vargas’s liking for the young man had grown 
rapidly; every time that a doubt arose in his mind as to 
political or administrative matters, he sought out the 
deputy, took him to his house, introduced him into his 
private office, and had a long talk with him. Now he 
had another project to submit to his approval. San- 
giorgio gave him his opinion, and then said: 

“Signora Vargas is up in the diplomatic gallery.” 

“Indeed!” said the Minister, with perfect indifference. 
“Do you believe that the discussion will be lively?” 

“Yes, on the fourth article; the Extreme Left is very 
strong on that.” 

“Shall you speak, Sangiorgio?” 

“IT do not know”— 

“You ought to speak. Listen: come and dine to-mor- 
row with me, and I will explain to you all my ideas”— 

“Thank you; I will come,” Sangiorgio replied, after an 
instant of hesitation. He was about to move away, but 
the Minister recalled him. 

“Since you are in the mood to sacrifice yourself for me, 
go up in the gallery and keep my wife company. She 
must be bored to death, and I have not time even to go 
up and speak to her.” 

“Do you think she is bored?” 

“Yes, she detests politics. Woman is an egoistic be- 
ing, my young friend,” Silvio replied philosophically, ad- 
justing his monocle. 

Sangiorgio hastily gathered up his papers, threw them 
into a drawer, and quickly mounted the stairs. Angelica 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 191 


Vargas did not turn her head, although she heard the 
door of the gallery open. 

“Are you very much bored, Signora?” inquired San- 
giorgio, in a quiet tone, as he stepped to her side. 

“Not more than usual, Signor,” she replied, giving him 
her hand, without any manifestation of surprise. 

Sangiorgio sat down, a little behind her. The young 
woman spoke to him without looking at him, her eyes 
fixed on the hall below. 

“You come here quite often, do you not?” 

“Yes. Even boredom becomes a habit. And then— 
Silvio is a Minister, and everyone seems to think I have 
a great deal of influence. Our house is continually be- 
sieged with people wanting one thing or another.” 

“Why do you not forbid your door to them?” 

“That is impossible for the wife of a politician. Sil- 
vio is always apprehensive lest I should make him lose 
his popularity.” 

Her voice was bitter. 

“Are you compelled, then, to submit to contact with 
the vulgar crowd?” he asked, with a tender accent that 
made her change color. 

“Yes. I am very indulgent by nature, but vulgarity 
offends and hurts me.” 

“You must steel your heart against it.” 

“The heart! The heart does not matter. It is the 
nerves that cause suffering. And so I prefer to come 
here: between two evils, I choose the lesser.” 

“You hate politics, then?” 

“T do not exactly hate it, but I do not like it.” 


192 MATILDE SERAO 


“But politics is a grand and noble idea,” he hazarded. 

“They say so, but I do not understand it. I do know 
of other ideas that are noble, generous, great; but this! 
—I am too ignorant, I suppose,” she murmured humbly. 

“No, no!” Sangiorgio hastened to say. “Perhaps you 
are right.” 

“I cannot like politics,” she went on. “To us women, 
certain ideas—above all, when they are purely abstract— 
represent nothing to our minds. We need something 
concrete to bring an idea clearly before us. Thus, reli- 
gion is typified by the Church, by the images of Christ 
and the Virgin; patriotism is represented by our native 
land, by our childhood friends. But your politics’— 

“Is represented by the politicians,” interrupted San- 
giorgio with a smile. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” she replied, with disdainful in- 
difference. 

“And the politicians—do you hate them too?” 

“I pity them.” 

He felt a touch of resentment, and a pained expression 
came over his face. 

'“T often study them,” Angelica continued. “What 
haggard faces, yellow with bile, green with envy! What 
pale, sickly, unwholesome faces! All seem affected with 
the same malady—a fatal malady, which ruins and kills 
them. I fancy that the gamblers in the gaming-hells 
must look like them.” 

“Well, at least, politics:is a great passion,” Sangiorgio 
ventured to say. 

“Great? Perhaps, but I do not think so. When poli- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 193 


tics takes possession of a man, it weighs him down with 
petty ambitions, unworthy pride, degrading compro- 
mises. There are three hundred men in this hall; all are 
intelligent and educated, all have moral and physical 
courage, all have clean consciences and upright charac- 
ters. Well, these three hundred brains, these three hun- 
dred wills, these three hundred intelligences—what is 
the ambition of each one, without exception?” 

“To be a Minister.” 

“Yes, to be a Minister, at no matter what cost. Must 
not the human mind become miserably atrophied through 
incessant dwelling on that one implacable desire? Can 
man, capable as he is of working miracles in science and 
in art, ever produce anything good and wholesome in 
this vitiated atmosphere?” 

“You are right,” he said. 

“To invent something that increases the happiness of 
mankind—is not that better worth while than to be able 
to bring about the fall of a cabinet? To carve a statue, 
paint a picture, write a book—is not that better than to 
form a ministry?” 

“Yes, that is true,” he admitted again. 

“And as to courage, do you believe that a man can 
preserve it, with all its vigor and strength, in this place, 
where everything is summed up in a wordy speech, and 
where all noble initiative is lost in twenty-five sessions 
and in fourteen committee-meetings? Too many words, 
too many words, Signor!” 

“But we all fought when we were needed.” 


“Yes,” she replied, thoughtfully. “Yes—once! I can 
13 


194 MATILDE SERAO 


comprehend the heroism of the battlefield and of con- 
spiracies, but parliamentary heroism does not impress 
me.” 

They were silent a moment. A little flame of color 
had crept into Angelica’s fair cheeks; her impulsive 
words floated in Sangiorgio’s brain and impressed them- 
selves there as if sealed with wax upon paper. 

“Then there is conscience,” she pursued, wishing to 
free her mind. “How can it remain pure among so many 
lies? How can it stand firm, invulnerable, when the 
surest path to success is to render oneself pliable?” 

“True, true!” murmured her listener. 

“Yes, truly, politics is a great passion! All women in 
my situation know something of that, alas! That pas- 
sion, once it obtains possession of a man’s heart, reigns 
there as absolute mistress, driving out everything else. 
If we live in the country, the man abandons us for nine 
months out of every year, without a thought of the 
youth, the beauty, or the loneliness of the wife he leaves 
behind him. If we come to Rome, it is still worse; the 
house becomes a miniature Parliament, where conspira- 
cies are hatched if we are not in power, and means of 
defence are prepared if we are Ministers. No more 
friends: nothing but allies, toadies, office-seekers, rivals! 
We do not ask for their friendship: what we want is 
their votes. If a man says, ‘Yes,’ he is our friend; if he 
says ‘No,’ he is a traitor. All privacy is lost—spoiled 
by a throng of strangers, who turn the home into a 
street, a square, a public thoroughfare. Confidence dis- 
appears; the husband is nervous, restless, irritable, but 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME ~ 195 


does not talk of his worries, because he despises feminine 
advice. At the table, he opens telegrams or reads news- 
papers. At a ball, the wife sits by herself, because the 
husband must represent the Government, talk with in- 
fluential deputies, bow to the wives of party leaders. 
We must choose between the terrible solitary life in the 
country, where one lives for long months like an aban- 
doned wife, and the noisy life of the city, without a 
breath of poetry, or one smile of the ideal. A great pas- 
sion, yes! but also a furious, absorbing, destroying pas- 
sion, which terrifies and disgusts!” 

Again silence fell between them. Down on the floor 
Silvio Vargas was speaking in a strident voice, his hands 
in his pockets, bending his thin body slightly forward, 
and looking at the man he interrogated with an expres- 
sion of biting scorn, irritating in the extreme. 

“A great passion, a great passion!” murmured Angel- 
ica. “But we women understand only one!” 

“And that is’— 

“Love!” 


“True!” Sangiorgio replied. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE QUIRINAL BALL 


66 E shall dine alone this evening,” said Sil- 
vio Vargas to Sangiorgio, as they sat down 
at the table. 

The Minister’s secretary joined them, but 
the hostess’s place was vacant. In the center of the fam- 
ily dining-table stood a cluster of red lilies in a crystal 
vase, and Sangiorgio’s eyes wandered continually from 
these gorgeous red flowers to the vacant chair. 

The deputy and the Minister talked briskly, without 
paying much attention to what was set before them, Sil- 
vio cutting his food nervously while he expounded his 
views on the Communal and Provincial Law; Sangior- 
gio listening, replying, making objections, and forgetting 
his dinner completely, for his thoughts were not con- 
fined within the bright, warm little dining-room; they 
strayed to a sacred place, behind closed doors—to the 
dressing-room of Angelica Vargas. 

Only the secretary did full justice to the dinner; he 
appreciated all the delicacies, without for a moment re- 
laxing in respectful attention to his chief. Now and 
then he nodded approval of the Minister’s remarks, or 
frowned slightly at some criticism from the deputy. 

The repast proceeded, while at intervals a servant 


brought in a letter, a telegram, or a fresh relay of plates. 
196 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 197 


Vargas read the letters, opened the telegrams, but hardly 
looked at the dishes offered him. 

Near him stood a small table, on which were an ink- 
stand, a pen, telegraph blanks, and letter paper. He 
said that he must answer these communications at once, 
and proceeded to write, pushing away his plate and 
handing a marked newspaper to his secretary, who read 
the interesting paragraph with the wise air of an old 
diplomatist. 

Sangiorgio tried in vain to catch some sound coming 
from Angelica’s private apartments; but no maid came 
out or went in, no bell sounded and there was no move- 
_ ment of any kind to denote that a beautiful woman was 
dressing for a royal ball! 

A burning desire to know and to hear something con- 
sumed Sangiorgio, who was growing nervous and im- 
patient in the heat of the dining-room, where he was 
compelled to listen to the eternal political talk; the de- 
sire sprang from the sight of that empty chair, pushed 
back as if its late occupant had only just left it, and 
those deep-hued lilies, the flaming flowers of passion. 

If she would only enter the room for a moment to 
greet her husband and his guest! If she would only let 
him behold her in the radiance of her youth and beauty! 
Every time the door opened, Sangiorgio started, closed 
his eyes for an instant, expecting to open them on a 
vision of grace and splendor; but the door opened only 
to bring another telegram, another letter, a special mes- 
senger; and once Silvio drew from his pocket a secret 
cipher, with which to translate an official despatch. 


198 MATILDE SERAO 


Where, then, was Angelica? On what perfumed breezes 
had she disappeared? 

Time passed, and nothing in the house suggested fes- 
tive preparations; people came and went, the servants 
appeared busy with their master’s affairs, and the whole 
place seemed like a public square, a stock exchange, a 
political gathering-place. 

Perhaps, in her private sanctuary, the girlish beauty 
of Angelica was surrounded by the pleasing excitement 
and disorder of preparation for a grand function: scat- 
tered linen, silk stockings peeping out of half-open draw- 
ers, unstoppered flasks, light flounces sweeping the 
floor. But of all this intoxicating feminine disorder not 
a breath escaped to the outer apartment. 

Yet Sangiorgio felt his whole being penetrated with 
a strange charm; he was struck by the contrast between 
the dreary, dry details of the Minister’s life and the 
poetic sweetness of that feminine toilet. A tender agita- 
tion stirred his heart and his senses. 

At last, at ten o’clock, doors outside opened and shut; 
a voice spoke, in very low tones, and Sangiorgio, his 
mind filled with the one great desire, believed that now 
she must surely come. But no one appeared, and after 
a moment there was a sound of wheels rolling over the 
pavement under the windows. 

“My wife has gone to the Quirinal,” said Vargas, 
placidly, opening a copy of La Riforma, which had just 
been handed to him. “Shall you go, too, Sangiorgio?” 

“Yes—later,” Sangiorgio replied, very pale. 

In the white glare of the electric lights that illumin- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 199 


ated the grand staircase of the Quirinal, the women filed 
slowly upward, placing only the tips of their little satin 
slippers on each step, and doing their best to display in 
the brilliant light their flowing trains, their feathered, 
flowery, or bejeweled coiffures. They cast only a pass- 
ing glance at the great green shrubs, and the statues of 
the Muses surrounded by waving palms that showed 
dark and graceful against the white stuccoed walls. 

These fair ones did not smile or laugh, so that the per- 
fect serenity of their countenances might be preserved. 
They mounted the stairs slowly, that they might not 
feel the heat, as they did not wish to spoil their beauty 
with a complexion too flushed or too pale. They looked 
like animated statues in the great tapestried apartment 
that had been transformed into a dressing-room, as they 
untied ribbons and took off scarfs and mantles. With 
the utmost deliberation, they smoothed the folds of their 
long suéde gloves, and readjusted the short sleeves of 
their bodices, while impatient husbands, fathers, and 
brothers waited without, to offer their arms to the leis- 
urely ladies. 

The passage through the two long outer rooms was 
also performed in silence, although those ruby lips were 
beginning to part with the regulation society simper; 
but on entering the great ballroom, and receiving from 
the master of the ceremonies a dance-programme and a 
bouquet, their faces became wreathed in sweetest smiles, 
and the escort of husbands, fathers, and brothers was 
abandoned with small ceremony. 

There was a great sparkling of jewels. On three rows 


200 MATILDE SERAO 


of benches covered with red cloth, sat three hundred 
women, adorned with precious stones. A few heads, 
more modestly arrayed than others, threw out a single 
ray of light at each movement; but when some of those 
statuesque shoulders moved, there was a shower of 
sparks, dazzling and beautiful. 

The women sat close, and their rich draperies seemed 
blended one with another; materials and colors were 
mingled in a radiant mass; and one obtained only 
glimpses of some brilliant bodice, a fluffy shoulder- 
sleeve, a flower, a rosette. But the radiance that out- 
shone everything—glistening satins, delicate laces, trans- 
parent gauzes, the richness of raven tresses, the glory of 
golden curls, the snow-white gloves, the swelling throats, 
rounded arms and bosoms—came from magnificent jew- 
els, a blinding, bewildering array. They set off the 
varied feminine charms with magical beauty; here they 
shone on shoulders almost anzmic in their whiteness; 
there they sparkled on a pearly skin, polished, without 
shadow or transparency; they undulated on flesh that 
had a pinkish tinge, as if silver-white tissue lay upon rose- 
tinted silk; and again they lent brightness to a smooth, 
even surface, indicative of a calm and moderate temper- 
ament; elsewhere was a gleam upon a velvety texture, 
to which heat or emotion gave a warm flush; and here, 
there, and everywhere they cast a superb radiance over 
an unparalleled array of feminine beauty, rich and glow- 
ing as ripe fruit. 

All these charms blossomed forth from the low-cut, 
short-sleeved bodices, with the appearance of the luxu- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 201 


riousness and spontaneity of tropical flowers; this un- 
veiled beauty, three hundred times repeated, took on an 
effect of general loveliness, like the splendor of a great 
garden; all personalities disappeared in the richness of 
the general éffect. 

Behind these benches, standing against the wall below 
the balcony for the orchestra, was a solid black-and- 
white hedge of men, each trying to discern some particu- 
lar face among the glittering throng, but seeing only the 
splendor of the diamonds, only Woman, of which three 
hundred fair ones composed the radiant whole. 

There was a sudden silence; the orchestra sounded 
the first strains of the royal march: a loud, military call, 
producing a strange effect in that brilliant ballroom. As 
if moved by a single impulse, the three hundred women 
arose with a tremendous rustling of silk and satin, and 
stood, smiling, their eyes fixed on the doors at the end 
of the room; the suspense seemed interminable. 

Then at the doors appeared a dazzling vision, and as 
the Queen entered, all white and sparkling, bowing to 
right and left with enchanting grace, the ranks of jew- 
eled women bent low in profound reverence. The eter- 
nal feminine in one received homage from the eternal 
feminine in multiplicity. The men looked on in admira- 
tion. 

Standing on tiptoe, Francesco Sangiorgio tried to dis- 
cover the lady of his heart. He stood among a group of 
deputies: the Honorable Sangarzia, who waited patiently 
for an opportunity to leave; the Honorable San Deme- 
trio, who combined gallantry with diplomacy. 


202 MATILDE SERAO 


The sight of so many women standing in rows, inhal- 
ing the fragrance of their bouquets, and smiling as they 
watched the royal quadrille, bewildered Sangiorgio; he 
recognized no one. Never had he seen such an assem- 
blage, such a gathering of beauty and luxury. He closed 
his eyes, dazzled; then, reopening them, he tried once 
more to distinguish the most beautiful woman—for him, 
the only woman. 

Suddenly he espied her, while her gracious Majesty 
was dancing with the stout German Ambassador, her 
long purple velvet court train floating behind her like 
the tail of a comet, and her royal diadem scattering 
multi-colored fires. 

Angelica was leaning on the arm of an elderly diplo- 
matist, with dark complexion and reddish-brown beard; 
she formed part of the royal quadrille, facing the fair, 
blonde wife of the Swedish Ambassador. 

Angelica danced with the harmonious movement that 
was one of her greatest charms; her white brocade gown, 
striped with silver, fell in rich folds around her; her 
girlish, graceful bust rose from a bodice modestly 
décolleté, and was covered with filmy tulle. A necklace of 
pearls, no whiter than her skin, encircled her throat, and 
a diamond cross sparkled on her breast. Her chestnut 
hair was ornamented with diamond stars, placed irregu- 
larly, as real stars shine against the dark background of 
the night sky. 

And the keen eye of the lover perceived, at one corner 
of her bodice, nestling in a rosette of tulle, a cluster of 
lilies-of-the-valley, a modest bouquet placed there for 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 203 


the sake of their perfume and poetic suggestion, where 
they caught the eye of the devoted Sangiorgio. 

In the midst of all this beauty, simple and modest, pro- 
voking and superb, gracious and delicate, Angelica was 
the image of dreamy and candid beauty; she was the 
type of chastity, in her white and silver gown, simple 
yet rich, the folds of which looked like those of a marble 
statue; her appropriate bodice, just concealing that fas- 
cinating, almost provoking, place where the feminine 
shoulder melts into the arm; her white gloves reaching 
to the elbows without a wrinkle. She wore no brace- 
lets, but a single diamond shone in each ear. Her eyes 
beamed with a soft light as they rested on the scene 
around her; her transparent skin had the freshness of a 
child’s; her cameo-like profile showed a touch of pink at 
the nostrils; the mobile lips were of the sweetest crim- 
son; her whole expression was one of gentle peace, like 
that of a woman without hope and without desire—a 
kind of aureole, wholly spiritual, seemed to envelop her. 

As he looked at that exquisite face, Sangiorgio felt its 
suggestion of sweetness and purity like a refreshing 
breath; it fell on his spirit like a benediction, an innocent 
caress, the kiss of a child, or a sister’s embrace. It 
calmed his nerves and his excited brain; all desire van- 
ished in a flood of infinite tenderness; this charming 
being was indeed for him the celestial Beatrice. 

Seated in the great royal chair, the Queen leaned over 
a little to talk to Donna Clara Tasca, who sat beside her 
on a stool, which was her privilege as the wife of a Che- 
valier of the Annunciation. The little Sicilian, with 


204 MATILDE SERAO 


large, spirituelle eyes under her slightly gray hair, and 
animated face, responded vivaciously, showing respect- 
ful interest when she listened. 

The other ladies of the great world—political or diplo- 
matic—stood in groups, chatting among themselves, 
while attentively observing the Queen’s every move- 
ment. They did not dance nor accept any invitations, 
but waited their turn to speak to her Majesty. Every 
one of them, in spite of rank, name, and power, was 
ambitious to obtain that one moment of supreme favor 
granted in the presence of two thousand spectators. 
They forgot their hopes, their desires, their interests, 
jealousies, hatreds, for the hope of a few unimportant 
words uttered before an envious public. Only the young 
girls, who could not as yet aspire to that honor, came 
to the ball to amuse themselves, to flirt, to show off 
their youth and beauty, and were now waltzing in the 
great ballroom, in clouds of pink, blue, and white tulle. 
The men came and went, stopped, chatted, and laughed 
among themselves. 

As soon as the royal quadrille was ended, Sangiorgio 
made his way through a crush of silken skirts, and stop- 
ped at twenty paces from Angelica, who was talking 
with the deputy from Carimate, a noble lord not free 
from a suspicion of socialism. She appeared absorbed, 
but now and then her eyes rested on the fair face of the 
Queen. 

The royal lady had risen, and a flutter stirred the 
groups of women; all heads were turned toward her; 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 205 


all hearts beat faster; they breathed more quickly, some 
were silent, others talked, but in an absent way. 

The Queen was surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting: 
two Americans, married to two Roman Princes, blond, 
sympathetic, and elegant; Donna Vittoria Colonna, with 
brilliant dark eyes; Donna Lavinia de Sora, pale and 
pensive; the Countess de Genzano, slender and golden- 
haired; the Princess Seraphita, with an angelic type of 
face, and dressed in white, with a simple bunch of vio- 
lets; the Princess Lalla, perenially youthful, with her 
profile like a head on an old coin; and finally, the 
Duchess Paola, first lady-in-waiting, a happy mother, 
whose daughters were dancing in the ballroom. 

Patiently the women smoothed their long gloves, 
folded and unfolded their feather fans, toyed with their 
bouquets, examined the dance-programmes for the hun- 
dredth time, as if they never had seen one before. 

Now, by a slight maneuvering, Sangiorgio managed to 
reach Angelica’s side, and murmured: 

“Good evening!” 

“Good evening!” she replied softly, with the expres- 
sive tone peculiar to her. 

She turned toward him a little, asking him whether 
her husband had arrived, while he gazed at her with 
eyes so full of tenderness that a slight flush rose to her 
cheeks. 

The Queen was speaking in French to the wife of the 
French Ambassador, a thin, dark little woman. The 
King talked to Signora Luisa Catalani, arrayed in black 
satin with a long blue feather in her blond hair. 


206 MATILDE SERAO 


Another quadrille opened, with a great spreading of 
trains; the ladies that found themselves near their Majes- 
ties danced sidewise, in order not to turn their backs on 
royalty; they moved with measured pace and downcast 
eyes. 

“Do you not dance?” asked Sangiorgio. 

“No, the Government does not dance this time!” An- 
gelica replied coolly. “Later, if you like, we will have 
a turn.” 

“Later?” 

“Yes, later.” 

At first he did not understand, so absorbed was he in 
gazing at her he loved. He comprehended nothing of 
the fever of feminine ambitions that possessed everyone 
near him. He was aware, however, that there was a 
great fluttering among the ladies; the groups grew 
larger, each woman impatiently awaiting the enchanting | 
moment. 

The Queen was now sitting in a window recess, and 
only her train and the flashing clasp of her necklace were 
visible, while she talked with Donna Lidia, the Prime 
Minister’s wife, a good and charming woman who left 
the privacy of her home life only to appear at the more 
important official functions. 

“That is Donna Lidia—the Queen is talking with 
Tonna Lidia!” murmured the crowd. The conversation 
lasted five minutes, and, by an irresistible attraction, 
the eyes of all the guests were fixed upon the royal 
lady, following her slightest movement. Would she 
turn to the right or the left when she rose? 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 207 


In the ballroom the couples that had danced the quad- 
rille were promenading slowly; invitations were tendered 
for the next polka; the young men scribbled their names 
on the dance-programmes; the ladies who were stran- 
gers, or elderly, occupied the last row of benches, with 
the self-satisfied air of persons who allow themselves to 
be bored, stately and motionless in their rich laces and 
jewels; those who had already had the honor of a royal 
word, circulated about the rooms, rosy and smiling, with 
triumphant glances, repeating to everyone that would 
listen the gracious remarks vouchsafed to them, and pay- 
ing no attention to the annoyance of those who were still 
waiting and trying to conceal their impatience. The 
King stood near the wife of Italy’s great patriot—a beau- 
tiful brunette, dressed in palest azure. 

“T hoped to see you at dinner,” said Sangiorgio, as 

‘bluntly as a young collegian. 

“Indeed!” replied Angelica vaguely. 

Then she abruptly turned her back on him. A path- 
way opened in the throng in front of them, and in the 
wide space, between two rows of admiring subjects, the 
beautiful sovereign advanced majestically, her shimmer- 
ing costume emitting a tremulous light like the radiance 
of a star. She approached Angelica. Sangiorgio stepped 
back, intimidated, admiring this perfect pair: the simple, 
serene woman, the royal, smiling woman—all that could 
be imagined of the power of the sex. 

Later, Sangiorgio and Angelica went from room to 
room, slowly, stopped frequently by the long, sweeping 
trains that crossed their path. In the large ballroom the 


208 MATILDE SERAO 


young girls, and the wives of secretaries and private gen- 
tlemen, were enjoying the pleasures of the dance; the 
orchestra played lively music by Métra and Fahrbach. 
The aristocracy promenaded, sat on the sofas, talked 
among themselves, holding aloof from the larger throng. 
The British Ambassadress and her daughter—the latter 
like a Botticelli Madonna—held court in the Blue Room, 
surrounded by diplomatists. They spoke to Angelica in 
English. Sangiorgio did not understand what she said 
in reply, but the strange tongue sounded like sweetest 
music to him. The Countess di Malgra, a pretty blonde 
with bewitching eyes, propounded social paradoxes to 
some young deputies of the Center; Signorina Maria 
Gaston, the daughter of the Minister of the Navy, with 
the face of a worldly little cherub, babbled nonsense to 
several elderly admirals; and Signora Giulia Greuze, the 
witty Belgian, laughed under the shade of a tall shrub, 
showing her beautiful teeth. 

Angelica, leaning on the arm of her escort, walked 
about, exchanging smiles and bows with the wives of 
the deputies: the little Marchesa di Santa Marta, her 
head as woolly as a sheep; the Marchesa di Corvisea, 
always in her red toilet, with the prettiest little feet in 
the Italian political world; the gentle Marchesa Cos- 
tanga, with her languid air; and the two daughters of 
the Minister of Justice, blond and dreamy. 

The Signora Clara Tasca had stayed only half an hour, 
but she had chatted with all the ministers, the influential 
men, the deputies, and had had a private talk with the 
Queen; she departed with her husband, whose political 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 209 


fortune she would have made, had he been less nebulous, 
less vague, less virtuous. 

Angelica spoke little, but her escort was enraptured to 
feel upon his arm that little hand, to be able to study 
the pearls on her white neck, and be touched by the folds 
of her gown. She was looking for her husband, without 

_embarrassment or affectation, but with some anxiety. 

At last he appeared, talking with a deputy of the Op- 
position. He approached his wife, bent down to her 
without looking at her, or even appearing to notice who 
accompanied her, and said in a low tone: 

“And her Majesty?” 

“Very amiable,” she replied, looking down. 

“More so than usual?” 

“I do not know—lI believe—it seems to me”— 

“Well, are you sure—yes or no?” said Vargas severely. 

“TI am certain—yes, I think so,” she hastened to an- 
swer. 

He turned away; Angelica was pale and disturbed. 

“Would you like to sit down?” murmured Sangiorgio 
tenderly. 

“No, no! Let us walk!” 

They went into a refreshment-room, where there was a 
great display of pastries, cakes, and bonbons, and a 
crowd of women nibbling at the sweetmeats and chatting 
with their escorts. 

“I want nothing, thank you,” Angelica murmured, as 
Sangiorgio led her toward the tables. 


She tried to forget her chagrin, and talked a moment 
14 


210 -MATILDE SERAO 


to the wife of the Secretary-General, but she could not 
recover her calmness. 

“Would you like to go home?” Sangiorgio inquired. 

“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed quickly. 

They resumed their search for Silvio; again traversed 
the Red’ Room, the Blue Room, the ballroom, the corri- 
dors; at last they found Vargas holding a conference 
with the British Ambassador. Angelica was about to 
speak to him, but he gave her a significant glance, for- 
bidding her to interrupt him. She blushed, bowed, and 
withdrew quickly with her escort. 

“Do you not dance?” she asked Sangiorgio, smiling. 
“You are much too serious. Of what are you thinking? 
Not of politics, I hope.” 

“Ah, no!” 

“Do not think of politics, I beg,” she said, leaning on 
his arm. “Are you in love, by chance?” 

“Yes,” he replied immediately. 

She was silent, fearing she had said too much. Then 
she spoke of other matters—of the ball, the tapestries, 
the heat, the Queen—in a soft, tired voice. It was two 
o’clock in the morning, and the ball was at its gayest; 
forty couples were waltzing, and throughout the apart- 
ments was a tumultuous sea of flowing skirts, tossing 
curls, feminine shoulders, and brilliant eyes. 

Silvio’s secretary approached Angelica, saying, with an 
air of self-effacement: 

“His Excellency is compelled to go at once to the 
Cabinet room, because of an important telegram. He 
instructed me to inform you of his sudden departure.” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 211 


He waited, humbly, but with the air of one who feels 
himself indispensable, for her orders to accompany her 
home. 

“Very well,” she replied, dismissing him with a look. 

Sangiorgio silently escorted her to the dressing-room, 
where, under the eyes of mute and almost automatic 
footmen, he assisted her to put on her heavy, ermine- 
lined white satin cloak. Without explanation, without 
a word, she took his arm, and quietly descended the 
grand staircase, preceded by a footman. 

When they reached her carriage, she gracefully 
gathered up her train and entered it. She did not hold 
out her hand nor say “Good night,” so Sangiorgio step- 
ped into the carriage after her, in a natural way. 

They drove away in silence; her silvery robe swept 
over Sangiorgio’s knees, and he caught the perfume of 
the lilies-of-the-valley. Her hands were clasped, one 
was gloved, the other bare, showing a diamond that 
twinkled like a star. And, in the shadow of the carriage, 
which descended the Quirinal hill at a slow pace and 
went on its way through old Rome, Sangiorgio looked at 
that pale, delicate face, and those clasped hands, which 
seemed inert from great fatigue. Motionless, silent, in 
a kind of ecstasy, he felt the joy of these fleeting mo- 
ments, and reveled in the bliss of heart and soul. Life 
seemed to him like a broad, tranquil river that flows to 
meet the sea, through a smiling landscape, under glorious 
sunlight, singing its song in the midst of flowers. Never 
had he been so happy, and his happiness was without 
alloy. 


212 MATILDE SERAO 


Now and then Angelica turned her eyes upon him. 
Nestling in her corner, in one of her graceful poses, she 
allowed herself to rest, with no exaggeration of either 
formality or abandon; she did not sleep, for her eyes 
often met those of the lover beside her; but her features 
were softened, giving her a sweeter expression; she 
looked like a young girl, almost a child, in her milk-white 
mantle, without formal cut, like the virginal vestments 
of a schoolgirl, and her sparkling jewels were like little 
stars scattered in her hair. No secret flame lighted 
those dark eyes, full of a maiden-like peace and purity; 
no smile curved those chaste lips. She, too, remained 
motionless, her face reserved, impenetrable, a clear oval 
in the obscurity of the carriage. 

What was passing beneath that inflexible mask? Did 
it conceal ardent dreams, sad thoughts, warm desires? 
Did that heart ever throb violently, or was it steeped in 
perpetual repose? Perhaps she was like one of those 
great cold lakes that no tempest can disturb. Angelica 
remained enveloped in the mystery of her serenity. 

But between those two beings—she chaste, calm, and 
religious, he plunged in the abyss of divine emotion— 
glided a third—Love! 


CHAPTER XV 


THE ROMAN CARNIVAL 


Se fe ARDLY had Sangiorgio emerged from the Via 
4 Babuino into the Piazza del Popolo, when he 

felt a handful of confetti thrown into the neck 

of his coat, though he did not know whence it 
came. A faded bouquet, muddy and malodorous, struck 
his cheek; a rabble of boys shouted street slang at him. 
A dark crowd, tumultuous, shouting, excited, pressed 
around the great fountain, under a shower of confetti 
thrown by all that approached on foot, and from the 
large wooden balconies extending along the Corso as 
far as the fountain. 

The brightness of a perfect spring day exhilarated 
everyone’s spirits, and covered the square with a glitter- 
ing mantle of sunshine and dust. 

Sangiorgio was obliged to elbow his way through the 
noisy mob, and felt somewhat irritated at the brutality 
of their wild sport. 

The people were massed before the two gates of the 
Pincio, and climbed to the top of the iron grating; but, 
though the gates were open, no one wished to go into 
the shaded walks of the park. 

The deputy made his way with difficulty, step by step, 
against the current, alternately pale and red with vexa- 


tion, restraining himself from striking the men that 
218 


214 MATILDE SERAO 


pushed and hustled him. The great difficulty was to 
reach the gardens; the entrances were blocked, and every 
inch of space was co crowded that it was impossible to 
pass. What did this man mean by trying to get into the 
park, when everyone in the city had turned out for the 
carnival, from the Piazza Venezia to the Piazza del 
Popolo? -The crowd could not understand such a foolish 
desire, and refused to make way for him. 

Finally he shouted, in exasperation: 

“Let me pass! I wish to enter the Pincio!” 

At last he succeeded in passing within the gates, and 
uttered a sigh of relief. He walked at once toward the 
green avenues, and soon found himself beneath the grace- 
ful elm-trees dressed in the fresh verdure of early spring- 
time. 

Not a pedestrian was to be seen in those deserted ave- 
nues, not a woman, nor a child; everyone was in the 
Corso, in the streets, at doors and windows, on the bal- 
conies, in carriages—all intoxicated with the mad frolic 
of the carnival. 

Sangiorgio at once felt calmed and soothed in the 
midst of this deep peace. Occasionally faint bursts of 
merriment from the distant revelry came to his ears, but 
as he went farther and farther into the park, all sounds 
died away, though, as he wended his way along the 
parapet that commands a view of the Piazza del Popolo, 
he could still distinguish the confused movement of a 
black mass of people, under a cloud of dust and con- 
fetti—a low-hanging cloud, like those that lie upon the 
marshes, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 215 


An old man, plainly dressed, sat on a bench in the 
middle of the great esplanade that overlooks Rome, St. 
Peter’s, Monte Mario, and the Roman Campagna. His 
staff had fallen to the ground, the sun shone full in his 
face, and he sat with closed eyes, stupefied with the heat, 
with fatigue and old age. Leaning against the parapet, 
a priest stood gazing at the panorama—a small black 
spot in face of the immense black area of the great city, 
now bathed in golden light. Sangiorgio approached the 
priest, who was young, thin, and pale; his face was 
slightly marked with the scars of smallpox; at intervals 
he read attentively in his breviary, a thick book bound 
in black, with yellowed leaves. 

Sangiorgio went on his way, feeling quite safe. The 
lawns frequented by nurses and children, teachers, 
and tired housewives, were abandoned; the band-stand 
appeared to have been deserted for years; on the play- 
ground the skipping-ropes, the elastic balls, and the 
hoops, hung neglected; the red and blue wooden horses 
were motionless, and the merry-go-round stood still. No 
kind hand threw crumbs to the beautiful white swan that 

swam slowly around the little lake, bending its neck like 
a woman fatigued and ill; under the plane-trees, the 
marble statue of Mercury, its cheeks moulded by many 
rains, seemed to have slept for centuries. 

On other days, the air was filled with children’s cries 
and laughter, merry shouts and maternal warnings; but 
to-day all was silent, and the usual visitors of this shady 
spot were now a part of the noisy throng in the city 
streets. 


216 - MATILDE SERAO 


Sangiorgio felt very happy in the depth of this se- 
cluded place, where everything breathed of springtime. 
Occasionally he cast a regretful glance at the deep woods 
surrounding the Villa Borghese, a most propitious re- 
treat for timid lovers; but of course she never would 
dare to cross the Piazza del Popolo in the face of such 
a mob as it contained that day. 

He waited an hour without any impatience, ignorant 
as yet of the torments of uncertainty, having full confi- 
dence in feminine promises. 

At last she came, passing along the avenue of the 
Trinita dei Monti, having left her carriage in the Piazza 
di Spagna. She wore a dark blue gown, with a little 
lace veil over her face, and she walked with a light, 
girlish step, without lifting her skirts, as if she were glid- 
ing over the ground. 

They saw each other from afar; Angelica lowered her 
eyes and did not hasten her steps, nor did Sangiorgio 
advance to meet her from the pillar against which he 
leaned. He stood and watched her as she drew near, 
admiring her in her dark gown and white veil. Was 
she not a flower of springtime herself—a human flower 
blooming for him alone, his joy and delight? 

When she reached him, they did not bow, nor shake 
hands, nor even speak; they simply joined their steps, 
walking side by side in the same direction for a moment 
without looking at each other. 

“Thank you!” said Sangiorgio at last. 

“No, no!” she replied quickly. Then she glanced 
around timidly, adding: 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 217 


“Some one may observe us here,” she said nervously. 

“Fear nothing! No one is here.” 

“No one?” 

“No one, because of the carnival.” 

“Oh, yes—everyone is in the Corso. I too ought to 
have gone there.” 

They approached the parapet, where they could dis- 
cern the eddying of the human sea in the Piazza del 
Popolo. Sangiorgio felt a sudden pang; it was as if 
this spectacle robbed him of some portion of his happi- 
ness; that throng represented to his mind the obstacles, 
difficulties, and trials of the future. 

Angelica laid her little hand in its suéde glove on the 
balustrade, and gazed at that distant sea of heads, from 
which rose a deep, continuous murmur like the rum- 
bling of a volcano. 

“How happy they are down there!” she murmured. 

Sangiorgio waited a moment, feeling slightly impa- 
tient. 

“Come, let us walk to the other side of the park,” he 
said. 

She turned her back to the city, and went with him 
down a path at the left, seeming to be lost in a day- 
dream. 

“No, I can see no one anywhere,” she said at last, in a 
tone of relief. “It is fortunate that this happens to be 
the day of the carnival. Everyone is crazy over it. 
Would you not prefer to be down there, too?” 

“How can you believe that?” said Sangiorgio, feeling 
rather hurt. 


218 MATILDE SERAO 


“There are so many things in which I can no longer 
believe,” she replied, in a half whisper. 

“You are so good, so sweet—I do not know what to 
say to you. Spare me, I beg!” said Sangiorgio, with 
the humility of a Christian before a sacred image. 

“IT have something sad to say to you, my friend,” said 
Angelica, after a slight pause. Her sweet voice was full 
of sympathy. | 

“Not to-day, not to-day! To-morrow—some other 
day!” 

“Better to-day than to-morrow,” Angelica replied, fix- 
ing her soft eyes on the woods surrounding the Villa 
Borghese. “You must have courage.” 

“No, I am not courageous—I am a coward”’— 

“But a man must have courage,” she insisted, “in order 
to live at peace with his own conscience.” 

She gave a slight shiver as they passed near the thick 
shade of the Villa Medici. 

“Conscience, conscience!” Sangiorgio exclaimed, taken 
aback. “But what of love?” 

“We must not love,” she declared, as if passing sen- 
tence. 

“Why?” 

“Because they will not allow us.” 

“Who will not allow us?” 

“They!” she replied, pointing toward Rome, seething 
with mad merriment. 

“But you do not know them.” 

“They are my conscience, however. Deceit is hateful 
to me.” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 219 


”You do not know what it is to love!” said Francesco. 

“Perhaps!” and she gazed long and fixedly at Monte 
Mario. 

“Come! Come!” Sangiorgio repeated, wishing to 
draw her away from the sight of the people. 

And, indeed, as she once more turned her back on the 
panorama of Rome, her face softened and her thoughts 
seemed to take a less mournful turn. The quiet sur- 
roundings, the solitude, the first breath of spring, the 
bright sunshine, the warm air, and the tender, reverent 
gaze of the man beside her, gradually made her forget the 
outside world, and remember only the springtime, the 
season of love. 

To Sangiorgio it seemed as if their two souls were 
blended into one, in the midst of these flowers and trees, 
these singing fountains, this exquisite spot, a nestling- 
place on Nature’s bosom. 

But this sweet sensation vanished at the sight of 
Rome, for, at the sound of the hard and menacing 
voices of the crowd that floated up to their ears, he was 
aware that Angelica hardened her heart, and strove to 
be stern and inflexible 

He used all his efforts to prevent her from returning 
to the parapet, and the little platform that overlooked 
the city, and finally led her some distance from it. 

“One should not love too late,” Angelica resumed. “It 
is useless and it is painful. Where were you five years 
ago?” 

“Over there, in the Basilicata,’ he replied, with a 
vague gesture. 


220 MATILDE SERAO 


“I was among the mountains and the snow. I be- 
lieved that there were glaciers so huge that no one could 
ever climb them. I married Silvio. He was good, and 
I knew nothing about—sunshine. And now the sun has 
risen too late.” 

“Do not say that! Do not say it!” 

“We must not turn the snow into mud, my friend.” 

Silence fell between them. Sangiorgio was as pale as 
death. Angelica’s eyes were filled with tears; deeply 
moved, he gazed upon that sad and tearful face, but he 
tried to hide his pain, not knowing what to say before 
the grief of a woman. 

“Life is hard for me,” Angelica went on, in a faint 
voice, as if overcome by her emotion. “I have no chil- 
dren to warm my heart with motherly love; I have only 
an old man, whose heart is frozen, who loves only one 
thing, one idea! Oh, if you only knew, my friend, what 
I suffer in this eternal silence and solitude!” 

“But why endure it at all?” 

“Because—I must!” she answered vaguely. 

They walked again very slowly. She, as if greatly 
fatigued, he, close upon her footsteps, seeing nothing, 
hearing nothing, his whole being absorbed in the thought 
of her. 

The sun was setting brilliantly behind St. Peter’s. 

“It is over, my friend—it is all over. It seems to me my 
life is ended. The world sees my calm face, my perfect 
serenity, and it must never see or know of anything else 
—it must never suspect the truth. But there is nothing 
more in here for me.” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 221 


She laid her hand over her heart an instant, without 
comprehending how much she pained her companion by 
her avowal of indifference. She had yielded to one of 
those selfish and melancholy outbursts peculiar to self- 
contained minds; she forgot Sangiorgio in pouring out 
the bitterness of her young but disillusioned soul. 

“But,” murmured Sangiorgio, “you can have a firm, 
pure friendship with one whose affection will stand any 
proof, one who will devote himself to you until death. 
Whatever you wish, he wishes; his desire to please you, 
humbly, secretly, knows no bound”’— 

He stopped, because his throbbing heart made his 
voice tremble and checked his speech. 

“I thank you, my friend; I know it,” she replied, a 
sweet smile lighting up her face. 

“You cannot know it, for I never have told you of it; 
I never can tell you what I feel for you, for I express 
myself so badly. But I assure you it is mingled with 
the deepest devotion. Why reject it? Why renounce it?” 

“Because it is too much like love, my friend!” 

“I have not spoken to you of love.” 

“No, but I divined it.” 

“You must not divine it; you must not try to under- 
stand it. I ask nothing but that you will allow me to 
dedicate myself to you.” 

“Yes—to-day; but to-morrow love will demand love.” 

“Who tells you so?” 

“Alas! Experience, my friend.” 

“Experience lies, then!” exclaimed Sangiorgio. “My 
love is like that of no other man.” 


yay. MATILDE SERAO 


Angelica bent her head, as if conquered, and Sangior- 
gio repented his violence. , 

“Pardon me, Signora!” he said humbly; “the idea of 
losing you is insupportable to me.” 

“But it must be. We must part; better now than 
later, for then you would suffer more; I should be more 
to blame, and you would believe you had a right to be 
angry with me. Now, there is still time to avoid all 
that. We are nothing to each other. We have met 
only four or five times”— 

“IT have always known you.” 

“In the world of society”— 

“IT wept with you when you wept that day in the 
Pantheon!” 

“In the midst of a frivolous crowd”— 

“One day I watched you a long time, while you were 
at the Ponte Nomentana, and threw your rose-leaves into 
the river. You were alone—we were alone!” 

“And among the conventional formalities of political 
‘life’— 

“Ah, how beautiful you were that night of the Quirinal 
ball! I went away when you left. I did not speak to 
you, you said nothing to me, but how beautiful you 
were!” 

“It is a dream—only a dream!” said Angelica, agitated 
by his passionate phrases. “We must awake; we must 
part!” 

“That means death, then.” 

“Who speaks of death?” 

He did not reply, but she understood his sad look. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 223 


The sun had set, and long violet rays shot up from the 
horizon against the clouds; a fresh breeze had sprung 
up, driving away from the terrace the priest and the old 
man. Shadows fell in the park; from the city streets 
came an increased sound of cries and shouts. 

Angelica took the path leading to the Trinita dei 
Monti, and Sangiorgio kept pace beside her, bewildered, 
abashed, without daring to speak, but longing to go with 
her to the end of the world. At the great gates, she 
turned to him, extending her hand. 

“Good-by, my friend!” 

“No, not that—not good-by!” 

“It is too late!” said the adored but glacial voice. 

And Angelica was lost in the mists of twilight. 

The moment had come to light the innumerable can- 
dles, from the Piazza del Popolo to the Piazza di Vene- 
zia. 

There was a myriad of these bright points, these wan- 
dering flames and dancing sparks, in the streets, on the 
balconies, at the windows. 

Pandemonium reigned, amid the tossing of muddy 
bouquets, a waving of handkerchiefs and rags, a flutter- 
ing of fans, all kinds of jokes and pranks indulged in to 
extinguish one another’s candles; and when any one 
cried out in resistance or attack, there was a new roar 
of “Candles! Candles! Candles!” 

Through this sea of lights, this bedlam of noise and 
merriment, a sad being, racked with grief, made his 
way, unconscious of being pushed and elbowed and 
jostled. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A FLOWER ON THE CURRENT 


FHIREE times they had met on the great road, bor- 
dered with elms and plane-trees, that runs be- 
side the Tiber. Angelica would leave her 
carriage before arriving at the Ponto Milvio, 

sending her coachman away with orders to wait for her 
at Saint Peter’s; then she would cross the bridge on foot 
and walk a hundred paces or so, glancing hurriedly here 
and there. 

Sangiorgio was always waiting for her; he had been 
waiting two hours, wild with impatience and longing to 
see her, striding to and fro near the Albergo Morteo, 
walking a few steps down the Via di Tor di Quinto, 
turning back to go a short distance along the Flaminian 
Way, then coming back again, casting vague glances in 
all directions: at the willows drooping over the stream, 
at the flowering almonds springing up behind the hedges 
of the Farnesina; then from afar he would see her ap- 
proaching, and the blood would rush to his pale cheeks. 

He did not go to meet her, but waited to hear her 
light footfall, affecting abstraction and unconcern. 

She usually arrived after breaking three or four ap- 
pointments with him, and was nearly always an hour 
and a half late, but she never attempted to excuse her- 


self, or to offer any apology for these vagaries; and 
224 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 225 


Sangiorgio met her without reproach or criticism, calmed 
by her mere presence, rewarded by that instant of su- 
preme joy for all his past anxiety. 

They always felt a slight, strange embarrassment at the 
moment of meeting; they knew not what to say, but 
turned and strolled slowly beneath the branches of the 
trees, she with her eyes cast down, a serious and preoc- 
cupied air, and hands hidden in her muff; he, stifled with 
his emotion, twirling his extinguished cigar between his 
fingers, abashed, happy, but speechless. 

The beautiful Roman spring verdure was daily spread- 
ing, from the cypress of the Monte Mario to the plane- 
trees of the Monti Parioli, and the white hawthorn 
bloomed everywhere. 

Angelica’s first words were usually sad and full of re- 
gret; brief, significant words, which fell like lead on the 
young man’s heart. He remained humble and silent, not 
knowing how to console this virtuous and pious woman, 
whose conscience was so troubled with remorse. Then, 
yielding to a natural compassion, she would moderate 
her words of complaint, her repentance seemed more 
vague, her anger softened. 

“She suffers for me! Then she must love me!” said 
Sangiorgio to himself in the madness of his passion. 

But never had she spoken to him one word of love, 
and never had he had sufficient boldness to ask for it. 
A certain timidity and shamefacedness always restrained 
him. Perhaps he feared the answer—the calm and cruel 
answer of a frank woman who did not love him. | 


And so, in their singular intimacy, it came to be tacitly 
15 


226 MATILDE SERAO 


understood that his princess should dwell, aloof and in- 
different, in her ivory tower, allowing him to love and 
worship her without expecting any return. She was the 
sacred image sometimes deigning to cast her gracious 
glance upon the faithful one kneeling at her feet, receiv- 
ing his blessings for her infinite kindness. 

The silvery river wound its way under the trees on 
its banks, and the air was filled with the sweet: scent 
of springtime. Sangiorgio finally dared to speak to An- 
gelica of the feeling in his heart, beginning with short, 
broken phrases of passion, telling her all that he had 
thought and felt since their last meeting; and the fire of 
his glance made her tremble. 

Gradually the sound of his own voice calmed him; 
he recovered his self-possession and spoke in more nat- 
ural tones; his ideas flowed more freely, and he went on 
with so much simple eloquence and sincerity that An- 
gelica, touched, regained her own serenity, and her 
cheeks flushed like those of a young girl. 

Sometimes she gathered green branches, great dark 
poppies, clusters of white currants, transparent as lace, 
or those red, poisonous berries, so brilliant, that grow by 
the wayside; and Sangiorgio spoke to her of love while 
she gathered all these, and suddenly appeared glad to 
listen to him, sometimes offering him a flower from her 
bouquet. He would hold it fast, seized with a strange 
desire to bite it; one day he said he wished to eat the 
scarlet berries, so bright and tempting to look at. 

“Do you wish to die, then, my friend?” said Angelica, 
half in jest and half in fear, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 227 


This betrayal of concern for him was one of the sweet 
thoughts that helped to cheer Sangiorgio’s yearning 
heart. 

One day she stood on tiptoe to reach a branch of flow- 
ering almond, in the blossoms of which she buried her 
face with a deep breath. In Sangiorgio’s eyes she her- 
self seemed the very spirit of springtime. She gave 
him the branch, and he laid it away with some withered 
lilies-of-the-valley, a bit of cloth of one of her gowns, 
begged for and granted as a great favor, and—precious, 
inestimable treasure!—a little handkerchief, bordered 
with fine old lace, which she had given to him one eve- 
ning when he was in despair, after waiting three days 
for her in vain. 

These evidences of adoration did not displease her. 
She would walk beside him, her eyes fixed afar off, on the 
Castel Sant’ Angelo, or on old Rome, where evening 
lights began to appear; and she listened quietly while her 
lover poured his tender words into her ear, sometimes 


nodding like a pleased child. 
By the time they reached the end of their walk, each 


felt calm and at peace with all the world; and they 
went their separate ways, after a long leave-taking full 
of tenderness. . 

One day she arrived at the rendezvous all trembling, 
having just encountered the Honorable Giustini, the 
sneering Tuscan, half-hunchbacked, half-lame, who 
flaunted everywhere his dreary cynicism and his shat- 
tered frame. 

Her carriage had passed him rapidly, but Giustini had 


228 MATILDE SERAO 


had time to recognize her and to salute her, with a look 
of surprise. Her terror was so great that she kept look- 
ing behind her, thinking that every peasant she saw was 
Giustini, and looking at Sangiorgio with frightened eyes. 
He tried in vain to reassure her, arguing that a pedes- 
trian could not follow a swift-moving carriage, and that 
the Flaminian Way was a public thoroughfare, where 
her presence in her own carriage could not be regarded 
as remarkable. 

But he too felt that vague terror that sometimes seizes 
upon lovers in their happiest moments, poisoning all the 
sweetness of their joy. That day their minds could not 
unite in their usual peaceful bliss, and Angelica summa- 
rized her apprehensions by saying: 

“Now Giustini is in the Chamber, and is telling every- 
one, even my husband. that he met me on the Flaminian 
Way.” 

In that painful hour Sangiorgio ventured to suggest 
that the public highway was not a suitable or a safe 
place for their meetings; they should seek the seclusion 
of some house, between four walls, far removed from the 
indiscreet and curious gaze of passers-by. He made this 
suggestion with so much respectful feeling and such true 
concern for her safety, that she could not force herself to 
be angry at him. She answered with a simple No/ 
spoken slowly but firmly, without anger or faltering. 
When he ventured to plead still further, she said quickly: 
“Hush! Hush!” 

He was silenced, and for the time he said no more. 
But the fatal encounter with Giustini made him realize 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 229 


fully the danger of these public meetings, under the pos- 
sible gaze of the grinning waiters of the Morteo Caffé, 
or the tax-gatherers at the Porta Angelica. 

Two further meetings were fully as unpleasant; An- 
gelica trembled at the sight of a cart or a soldier; the 
small boats on the Tiber alarmed her; she fancied the 
oarsmen recognized her and raised their oars to salute 
her. 

They could not talk quietly any more. When San- 
giorgio attempted to speak of love, she would interrupt 
him, look narrowly at the passers-by, lowering her head, 
alternately blushing and paling, when an occasional car- 
riage rolled along, and breathing rapidly after it had 
passed. 

One day a severe storm came up, about an hour before 
the time appointed for their meeting. Sangiorgio took 
refuge under the wide doorway of the Morteo Caffé, but, 
unable to control his impatience, he ventured out in the 
rain, trying to see whether Angelica was coming in the 
distance. 

He saw no one, and of course he knew she would not 
come out in such abominable weather; nevertheless b> 
waited, cherishing a secret hope in his heart. She did 
not appear, and he returned to Rome at seven o’clock, 
in an open tramcar, his feet on the damp floor, wet to 
the skin, his heart aching with sadness and disappoint- 
ment, and a touch of fever in his blood. 

At the next meeting, he repeated his suggestion. She 
still said No! but with less emphasis, less decision of 
manner. 


230 MATILDE SERAO 


It was late and the air was very cold. It was one of 
those freezing days of January transported into April, 
with a biting wind, a gray sky, a wet and soaking soil. 
Angelica’s only wrap was a little velvet cape which 
barely covered her neck and shoulders, so that she was 
soon chilled through. She held her handkerchief up to 
her face. Sangiorgio, too, felt very cold in his thin 
topcoat, but he did not speak of that, only saying: 

“You are very cold, are you not?” 

“Yes, yes!” she murmured. 

“Oh, heavens!” he said helplessly, trying to think of 
some means to bring her warmth and comfort. 

They hastened their steps, but Angelica’s thin shoes 
and the edge of her skirt became damp and muddy. In- 
stinctively he spoke again of the pleasure it would be 
to have a warm room, a place as warm as her own bou- 
doir in the Piazza dell’ Apollinare, where they might sit 
comfortably and talk before a good fire. For a moment 
Angelica made no reply. | 

“Where?” she finally asked, after a significant silence. 

“Somewhere over there,” he replied, with a vague ges- 
ture toward Rome. 

They said no more. Night fell, dark and melancholy, 
over, the deserted Campagna. Angelica felt so sad and 
‘so]timid that, for the first time, she slipped her hand 
through the arm of her friend, who felt his heart throb 
with gratitude at this favor. 

“Then three long days passed without a meeting. Sil- 
vio Vargas told Sangiorgio at the Chamber that Angel- 
ica was ill, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 231 


On the fourth evening he found her alone in her box 
at the Apollo; she was pale and appeared ill. She 
opened wide her large feather fan, and whispered to 
him behind it that on her return from their last rendez- 
vous, she had met the Honorable Oldofredi in the Piazza 
San Pietro, and that he had stared her in the face with 
a malicious grin. Oldofredi was well known to be vin-. 
dictive. 

At last, blushing for shame, she confessed to a doubt 
as to the good faith of her coachman and her maid; she 
felt sure they were watching her. Then, seeing that her 
friend looked hopelessly saddened and bewildered, she 
added quickly: ‘ 

“I will go! I will go wherever you please!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


LOVE’S SANCTUARY 


HEN Sangiorgio returned to his lodgings in the 
Via Angelo Custode, he felt a touch of fever 
in his blood. The promise Angelica Vargas 
had given him had turned his head and put 
fire in his heart. 

His sitting-room seemed cold and disagreeable, with 
its damp, close odor, and he felt a shudder of disgust on 
entering it. He extinguished the light, that he might 
not see the sordid surroundings, and threw himself, still 
dressed, on his bed, thinking of the place in which he 
should receive the adored being. 

His excited imagination could fix upon no exact idea; 
his half-open eyes seemed to see a succession of warm, 
fragrant rooms, with heavy curtains, and thick carpets 
that deadened all footfalls; but he had no idea where 
he was to find these rooms. Sometimes he decided that 
they must be in the neighborhood of the Janiculum, or 
in-the Piazza di Spagna; again, he decided upon the Via 
Sistina or the Piazza Navone. This indecision irritated 
him. Where were the doors to these rooms—the stair- 
way, the windows? 

He fancied he could see their walls covered with pale 
pink silk, the rich hue of a velvet armchair, the metallic 


scintillation of a Damascus blade, the delicate tracery of 
232 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 233 


a length of old yellow lace, but all was confused in his 
mind, everything was seen as in a mental fog. 

Where would Angelica sit when she arrived at this 
mysterious house? Where would she rest her tired 
feet? Where would she lean her arm? At times the 
rooms seemed empty, without chairs, table, or divans— 
vast and empty as a desert. 

His visions made him sigh deeply, as if in pain; a 
nightmare-like constriction of the chest oppressed him, 
and his head burned with fever. Lying thus on his bed, 
in a sort of waking dream, his heart aching with love’s 
sweet pain, he feared to move, lest his blissful visions 
should escape him, and Angelica’s promise also. 

Presently his dream changed and assumed various 
phases, sometimes tragic and sometimes comic. He 
imagined he had been waiting for Angelica a long, long 
time, and that she never, never came. The white cur- 
tains became yellow, then gray, with age; moths had 
eaten the coverings, which hung in strips; the furni- 
ture had become so old it no longer stood erect; in the 
bottom of the flowerpot was a mass of ashes that once 
had been flowers; the walls reeked with dampness. And 
he, the faithful lover, had become an old man, a cen- 
tenarian, bent, half blind, and with a long white beard. 
But she never, never came, and he continued to wait, 
always patient, always lovelorn. At last a resonant 
voice seemed to thunder thrice: Angelica is dead! 
Angelica is dead! Angelica is dead! At the first cry, the 
furniture crumbled into bits; at the second, the old man 
himself dropped dead, with arms outstretched and face 


234 MATILDE SERAO 


upon the ground; at the third, the walls fell in, mak- 
ing a tomb of the house that Angelica never had 
deigned to visit. 

Again, he would be possessed with a distracted fancy 
that it was the day appointed for the first rendezvous in 
the new apartment, and that he had totally forgotten 
the hour agreed upon. Was it for two o’clock, three 
o’clock, or four o’clock? He thought he rushed to Mon- 
tecitorio at noon, so that he would be sure to finish in 
time,-but the old Prime Minister stopped him in the cor- 
ridor, and, stroking his white moustache, insisted upon 
talking to him about the Basilicata, of the tax on salt, 
the condition of the peasants, and a dozen things which 
he hardly heard, in his absence of mind. 

No sooner had he shaken off the Prime Minister than - 
he ran across Giustini, whose slight hump had enor- 
mously increased, and who held him fast while he talked 
about Rome—that mysterious Rome which seemed to be 
sleeping. 

Time passed swiftly. Finally he escaped from the 
Tuscan deputy and ran to the Piazza Colonna, where he 
heard a feminine voice calling to him from the window 
of a closed carriage. He turned, and saw two large, 
lustrous dark eyes, crimson lips, delicate hands—the 
glowing face of Elena Fiammanti, who had loved him. 
She called: 

“Come! Come with me! Dost thou remember our 
first meeting at the Janiculum, on Christmas Day? Dost 
thou remember the night of the masked ball, and the 
moonlight in the Piazza di Spagna? Dost thou remem- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 235 


ber the roses I left in thy room—the kiss I gave thee 
at the theater after the duel? Dost thou remember all 
my kisses and all my love? Then come with me! I am 
joy and happiness! Never will I cause thee tears or 
suffering. Come! tell me all thy griefs, and I will com- 
fort thee, but will not tell my own sorrows, lest I should 
sadden thy heart.” 

But he bent his head, covered his ears, closed his eyes, 
that he might not hear the voice of this temptress or 
see her alluring face. He murmured “Angelica!” and 
Elena vanished, with a reproachful glance. 

Then he ran and ran, yet seemed to make no progress; 
carriages got in his way, friends stopped him, crowds 
surrounded him, dogs ran past him and nearly tripped 
his feet. He ran and ran, panting, leaping across 
streams, crossing streets, losing his way. 

Finally, flushed and breathless, he arrived at the right 
house; but on the sidewalk in front of it he beheld the 
Honorable Oldofredi pacing to and fro, as if on guard; 
he gazed at Sangiorgio with a sardonic smile, ugly, hate- 
ful, implacable. 


The house was Number 62, Piazza di Spagna. In 
front of it a flower-seller had established herself, with 
her flat basket filled with pale violets, double roses, and 
fragrant jonquils. 

The stairway was dark; three doors opened on the first 
landing, which was also dim and mysterious; on the 
middle door Sangiorgio’s card was fastened by two pins. 

Within was a small anteroom, in which Noci, the fa- 


236 MATILDE SERAO 


mous upholsterer and decorator, had placed an old oaken 
marriage-chest, delicately carved, on which was laid a 
long cushion of red and yellow silk. Three or four chairs 
ahd a table were disposed about the room. A bronze 
lamp was suspended from the ceiling, which, as well as 
the walls, was covered with painted canvas. 

The drawing-room had a large window, giving a fine 
view of the square; this room was large and light, and 
full of sunshine; draperies of old rose and pale green 
damask fell over creamy lace inside curtains, agreeably 
softening the glare of light. 

The walls were covered with light brown satin, and 
were still further ornamented by Persian shawls and old 
embroideries, artistically draped, and held in place by a 
glittering brass shield, a silver scimitar, or fan-shaped 
clusters of peacocks’ feathers, 

A fragrant sandal-wood rosary, such as Turkish 
women love to run through their idle fingers, hung in 
one corner; in another, a great white veil, studded with 
silver spangles, was gracefully arranged. 

But the most original decoration was a large square 
piece of yellow damask, of the period of the Renaissance, 
a kind of oriflamme, on which was appliquéd a Latin 
cross of black velvet. This strange ornament was in 
striking contrast to its brown background. 

There was no furniture of wood, not a table, even, 
with sharp angles; everything was padded and draped 
with velvet, silk, or satin. In slender opalescent vases 
were clusters of purple, white, and blue hyacinth; a rare 
orchid in a Japanese vase languidly shed its leaves. On 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 237 


an immense divan was a huge pile of down cushions, 
covered with silk in all shades of red, scarlet, amaranth, 
deep pink—every tint from that of the heart of a white 
rose to the richest wine-color. 

The two windows of the bedroom looked out on the 
Piazza di Spagna. This apartment was a sort of second 
drawing-room, furnished with deep-blue velvet hangings, 
bordered with broad bands of silver. 

There was no bed—only a very wide, low couch, over 
which was thrown a blue velvet cover, in the center of 
which was the letter 4, in elongated and fanciful design. 
Overhead, at one end of the couch, a blue velvet canopy, 
of a shade like the midnight sky and covered with sil- 
very stars, was arranged in a peculiar triangular shape, 
throwing a discreet, mysterious shadow on the couch be- 
low. Several pretty little pieces of furniture, in the style 
of the Pompadour, brightened the general effect of the 
room. 

The dressing-room was hung with cream-colored 
cashmere, and on a toilet-table draped with snowy mus- 
lin lay a set of toilet articles in oxidized silver, between 
two large white azaleas, in full bloom. 

The decorator had furnished the rooms in four days, 
in obedience to the impatience of Sangiorgio, who could 
hardly contain himself to act reasonably, but wandered 
restlessly about, like an unquiet spirit. 

When all was finished, he felt a mingling of joy and 
uneasiness. What would she think of this mysterious 
and luxurious rendezvous? Would her chaste and pure 
imagination be offended at such a display of Oriental 


238 MATILDE SERAO 


voluptuousness? That profusion of cushions, from deep- 
est crimson to faintest pink—were they not too direct an 
invitation to repose—the perfidious repose that leads to 
the surrender of the soul? 

The bedroom was handsome in its severity of style, 
but would his beloved ever enter it? Sangiorgio was 
happy, yet his mind was troubled; he had wished for a 
lovers’ retreat, and he had gained it; but now these 
quiet rooms, perfumed, with an air of sacredness, upset 
his former ideals, or rather, they evoked another ideal 
—more vivid, more human. 


Francesco Sangiorgio, seated before a bright fire, 
awaited Angelica Vargas. To go to the rendezvous in 
the new apartment had been for several days his only 
thought, his sole occupation. But Angelica, regretting 
her concession by this time, and deterred by va- 
rious scruples, refused to come, suspicious of him 
and distrustful of love, and fearing to meet in that 
street some one she knew. But, without revealing her 
fears and suspicions in words, she took refuge in the 
apathy of a virtuous woman, indifferent, tranquil, 
cured of all impulsive flights of fancy. Sangiorgio felt 
irritated and indignant at her suspicions, and her sweet, 
gentle obstinacy only added fuel to the ardor of his 
desires. 

Finally a deep bitterness against feminine injustice 
entered his soul. One evening, distracted with grief and 
anger, he said to her in a trembling voice: 

“Come! tell me what you fear! Are you not invincible 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 239 


in yourself? Have I not always obeyed your least wish? 
Do you not understand, Angelica, that you run no risk 
with me? You yourself are your own defence. You 
are without weakness, without sin.” 

She raised her face, flushed with pride and courage. 

“T will go!” she said, like a heroine sure of her victory. 

“When?” 

“I don’t know—one of these days—you know which 
are my free hours.” 

She would not be more precise, finding it very natural 
to make him wait and expect; like all women, she 
thought only of her own sacrifice, quite ignoring that of 
another. 

Every day, in the beautiful April weather, Sangiorgio 
passed several hours in the little drawing-room of the 
Piazza di Spagna. He rose rather late in his horrible 
lodgings in the Via Angela Custode, and dressed leisure- 
ly, sipping at a cup of very bad coffee brought to him 
by the servant. He did not touch a book or a pen, but 
made haste to leave that disgusting abode as soon as 
possible. 

Through the instinct of curiosity, he went first to 
Montecitorio for his letters, but he went no more to the 
reading-room, nor did he stop to chat in the corridors. 

Some of his colleagues said to him, when by chance 
he met them: 

“What has become of you of late? We never see you 
any more. Why do you not attend the sessions?” 

“I am very much engaged with work,” he would say, 
pensively, passing his hand over his forehead. 


240 MATILDE SERAO 


Or some one would say: 

“IT suppose you have been away ona trip to the 
Basilicata, Sangiorgio. How about your agricultural re- 
port—is it finished?” 

“Yes, yes! I have been in the Basilicata,” he would 
reply, his face flushing. “The report—oh, yes, it will 
soon be finished; it is a tremendous piece of work, 
though,” he would add. . 

He tried to elude such questions, as he did not know 
how to lie, and they troubled him. He would leave 
Montecitorio as quickly as he could, reading his letters 
without really comprehending their meaning, indifferent 
to the demands of his constituents or to the recommenda- 
tions of the officials in his province. 

Until then, he had been a model deputy, performing 
his duties with perfect regularity, rendering services to 
influential persons or to those who might be useful to 
himself, rewarding this man with a promise, that one 
with a good word, always able and adroit. But now all 
this sort of thing bored him. He thought only of the 
sweet nest of love where his adored lady had promised 
to come, and with a nervous movement, he would shrug 
his shoulders and thrust his letters into his pocket. 

He went to breakfast at the Caffé Colonna, alone, ab- 
sorbed in his dream, barely tasting the food set before 
him; and if ever his conscience reproached him for not 
replying to the urgent letters he received, he would or- 
der writing materials, and, at a corner of the table, while 
his beefsteak grew cold, he would dash off a few hasty 
lines on a scrap of paper. He soon grew weary of this, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 241 


however, and then he would pay his bill and go away. 
Often his letters would lie in his desk several days, until 
it was too late to answer them. 

At one o’clock he was always in the Piazza di Spagna, 
buying flowers of all the flower-girls, loading himself 
with roses, hyacinths, and violets, and hastening to the 
house to meet Angelica, who might perhaps have just 
arrived at the door. 

He always enjoyed a delicious sense of contentment 
when he entered that calm, rich, luxurious retreat. Cer- 
tainly she would come—had she not promised? And he 
would bustle about like an amorous youth of twenty, 
to light the fire, delighted when the wood caught and 
blazed up brightly. 

Then he moved about the apartment, arranging bou- 
quets, changing the water in the vases, throwing away 
the faded flowers, tying up clusters of roses with violets 
or hyacinths, and then untying and rearranging them, 
never satisfied, and occupying himself over these details 
with amazing activity. 

He wandered from one room to the other; the sight of 
the low divan in the bedroom made his heart throb; he 
returned to the armchair before the fire in the drawing- 
room—and waited. 

He waited there throughout the long spring after- 
noons, alone, motionless, gazing at the flying sparks, the 
bright flames, the capricious flight of the smoke, and 
then the dying embers. His eyes followed mechanic- 
ally the life and death of each brand; and while his whole 


being glowed with love for the adored one, the fire, too, 
16 


242 MATILDE SERAO 


consumed itself with its own ardor and fury. The blaze 
was always at its best at the hours when Angelica might 
come, and at that time, in the heart of the lover, as well 
as in the fire, was a temperature that was ready to meet 
anything, courage or metal. 

She might come at any moment; perhaps even now 
she was tremblingly mounting the stairs. Sangiorgio 
would close his eyes at the thought, overcome with emo- 
tion. Every day, from four o’clock to six, his nerves 
underwent the same strain of excitement and suspense, 
while the fire kindled, blazed, and died in the hearth. 

Then twilight fell; hope failed in the lover’s heart; 
the light grew dim, the coals became black, and the 
dark pall of night descended on the earth, on the fire, 
on love! 

He would leave the house at half-past seven, and walk 
slowly along, a chill at his heart, his face pale and down- 
cast, but cherishing always in his soul the divine hope 
of victory, the blessed hope of being loved. 

He could meet Angelica in the morning only among 
gatherings of people, and never had an opportunity to 
talk quietly with her now; but he renewed his courage 
by reading the expression in her eyes, which seemed to 
Say. 

“Wait for me! Wait for me a little longer! I shall 
come!” 

The next day, notwithstanding his former disappoint- 
ments, he would hasten at noontime to the little apart- 
ment in the Piazza di Spagna, and would remain there 
until after eight o’clock. Sometimes, while he sat be- 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 243 


fore the dying fire, a drowsiness seized him, and for a 
time he would be lost in a feverish, agitated sleep, from 
which he would wake with a start, thinking he had heard 
the outside bell ring. But it was only a dream—Angel- 
ica never came. 

A still greater trial was reserved for him. Formerly 
he was at liberty to seek her anywhere—at the Chamber, 
at a lecture, out walking, and he could occasionally even 
find a pretext for visiting her at her home, or to stop 
her husband, Silvio Vargas, and at least ask about her. 

But now all that was over. He was compelled to wait 
for her, shut within four walls, reduced to absolute inac- 
tion, to utter powerlessness, while others, who were not 
in love with her, in whom she felt no interest, any stupid 
fellow, the first comer, might meet her, salute her, talk 
to her. Not long before, he had gone about everywhere, 
chatted with his fellow members; interested himself in 
public matters, listened to the discussions of his col- 
leagues—in short, had lived. But now he was immured, 
cut off from existence; he appeared for a moment at 
Montecitorio to get his mail; then he flew to his nest of 
love, which swallowed him up, smothering his thoughts 
and his will, his activity and his energy. 

In the evenings, when he roamed from place to place, 
from ball to concert, from concert to the theater, in the 
hope of meeting Angelica, the world of society seemed 
almost an unknown region to him, since for so long a 
time he had seen nothing, heard nothing, and had not 


even read a newspaper. His acquaintances were begin- 
ning to say: 


044 MATILDE SERAO 


“That Sangiorgio—he seemed to be such a strong 
fellow—surprising change in him.” 

“Like all Southerners; a blaze of straw, and a great 
deal of smoke.” 

“Sangiorgio’s day is over.” 

He was aware of this feeling toward him, this senti- 
ment half pitying, half triumphant over his apparent 
failure in public life. 

He felt a wall of ice slowly rising around him, and 
comprehended that his new passion was drawing him 
farther and farther away from his great passion of the 
past—his adored politics. 

He was conscious of all this, yet was willing to make 
the sacrifice. He was neither a victim nor a rebel, but 
a joyous martyr, happy to feel the fire of youth in his 
veins, delighting in his sufferings. . 

A kind of wild and melancholy voluptuousness pos- 
sessed him every morning when he left the busy and 
burning streets to shut himself up in those cool rooms 
and wait. Like a fanatical worshiper of Buddha, he 
ascended and descended all degrees of self-annihilation, 
until at last he reached a complete and bitter abstraction 
of suffering, a Nirvana that was full of divine pain. 


It was the first morning in May—a fair, sunny, fra- 
grant morning—and the chimes of the Trinita dei Monti 
rang joyously. 

Sangiorgio had just entered his temple of love, laden 
with roses, his face pale and sad, his appearance as mel- 
ancholy as an autumn evening on the Roman Campagna. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 245 


He was arranging his flowers in the vases when a light 
ring at the bell made him flush and tremble, and brought 
to his eyes hot tears that fell on the carpet. 

“It is I—yes, it is I!’ whispered Angelica, as she 
glided into the room. 

She entered swiftly and threw herself into an armchair, 
still murmuring: 

“It is indeed I!” 

Sangiorgio stood before her, gazing at her without 
daring to speak, without even finding courage enough 
to thank her. 

The lovely woman had kept her promise, and had come 
to him with the advent of the month of flowers and of 
prayers to the Virgin; and, without saying a word, San- 
giorgio gathered all the roses in the apartment, and, 
with a gesture of adoration, he showered her with them, 
until her light gown was covered with the fragrant 
blossoms. 

“I have delayed a long time in coming,” she mur- 
mured, bending her charming head beneath this torrent 
of perfume, “but I could not help it.” 

And she made a movement of fatigue. With a look, 
he entreated her not to offer any excuse; his happiness 
was too perfect, too complete, to allow him to trouble 
her with a single reproach or one bitter word. 

Angelica wore a gown of the most delicate shade of 
gray, with a drooping white plume on her hat and a 
white lace veil over her dark eyes. She had sunk into 
one of the large armchairs, and sat in an attitude of care- 
less grace, her lap full of roses, with one hand resting 


246 MATILDE SERAO 


caressingly on the flowers, and the other hanging idle at 
her side. 

Sangiorgio drew a chair near to her, lifted the 
inert little hand, and carried it to his lips. She did not 
appear to notice his action. 

“It is very pretty here,” she said calmly, as if she were 
making a call in any ordinary drawing-room. “Yes, it is 
very pretty, indeed.” 

“I remembered that you said you liked the Piazza di 
Spagna,” he replied. 

“I prefer it to any other street. You did well to come 
here. I never have been able to find an apartment here. 
Old Rome, where I live, is so dismal, so ugly! That 
is the reason why I go out so much—I have a sort of 
horror of my own house.” 

“Come and live here!” he said, smiling. 

“TI should like to if I could,” she replied, with per- 
fect simplicity, “but that is impossible. I must go on 
living over there, in the gloomy old place. How bright 
it is here—so sunny and beautiful! Are you not happy 
here, my friend?” 

“Happy—yes!” he replied, with deep significance. 

“May God bless you!” she said in a half whisper, as 
if she breathed a prayer. Then she inhaled a deep breath 
of the fragrance of a glowing rose. 

“Besides,” she resumed after a moment, “there is the 
charm of contrast here, with the white palaces, the beau- 
tiful fine-art shops, and that great, severe, gray building 
sO near, with its awe-inspiring inscription: Propaganda 
of the Faith. Propaganda of the Faith! There is something 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 247 


grand and mysterious in those words—like a pardon or 
a divine call. I hope that you are a believer, my friend.” 

“If you believe, Angelica, I, too, believe.” 

“It is so vulgar to be an atheist! Religion is beauti- 
ful and good; it is more precious than most of the things 
that the world admires. Have you ever visited the 
churches in Rome?” 

“T have visited some of the basilicas as a matter of 
artistic curiosity.” 

“Oh, yes—but those are great, empty churches that do 
no real good. You should see the little Roman chapels, 
where people really go to pray. There is one up there, 
the Trinita, where men sing every Sunday behind a 
grille. Ah, what divine music! They are invisible, but 
when one listens to them it seems as if their very souls 
exhaled in melody all their sorrows and joys. Shall we 
go to hear them together some day?” 

“T will go wherever you wish.” 

“T should like to have you think and feel as I do—to 
like whatever I like.” 

“T love you!” he exclaimed, with the stifled voice he 
always used in speaking of his passion. 

“Hush! You promised not to say anything like that,” 
she murmured, blushing. 

“Ah, sometimes my feeling is stronger than my will! 
Let me say it, Angelica! Be kind—you who are sweet- 
ness itself! I love you—I love you so much that it is 
killing me. I am all alone—I have no one else in the 
world—and I love you, Angelica!” 

She did not reply, but lightly, like the sweep of a bird’s 


248 MATILDE SERAO 


wing, like a leaf blown by the wind, she passed her hand 
over his flushed face. He was silent, a little abashed, a 
trifle piqued, but his face felt cooled and refreshed by 
that light caress. She smiled with a touch of playful 
malice before asking him this question: 

“Ts it true that you once loved Elena Fiammanti?” 

“No, never!” 

“Well, then, she was in love with you.” 

“T do not think so.” 

“You never lie, do you?” 

“Never!” es 

“I believe that Elena did love you. She has a light 
‘and changeable nature, but a good, tender and affection- 
ate heart. I rarely see her. She prefers men’s society 
to women’s. Tell me truly, now—were you never in 
love with her?” 

“I never have loved anyone but you, Angelica.” 

“Let us not speak any more of love, my friend; or if 
I do speak of it, do not answer me—let me talk without 
interruption. I long to think aloud, so to speak, in the 
presence of some one who understands me, who pities 
me, who has some tenderness for me. But sympathy— 
that is what I long for—you will be indulgent toward 
me, will you not, dear friend?” 

“Angelica! Angelica! do not talk like that!” 

“Why not? Sometimes I feel like a child again; I 
forget my réle of a serious woman, a really grown-up 
person. I become timid, fearful, superstitious, full of 
childish extravagances and inexplicable caprices. In so- 
ciety I appear always calm, because that is my duty; 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 249 


but in my hours of privacy—hours filled sometimes with 
vague sadness or causeless joy—those feelings that no 
one can give a reason for—I need some one to sympa- 
thize with me. Will you be my friend, Sangiorgio?” 

She clasped her little hands with a supplicating air. 
Sangiorgio leaned over and touched her pure white fore- 
head with a kiss so light, so sweet and tender, so full of 
sympathy, that she felt tears come to her eyes, and for 
a moment she wept silently, deeply moved. 

“Do not weep, Angelica,” said Sangiorgio, in a changed 
voice ; “do not weep, I beg!” 

“Yes, let me—let me! It will relieve my heart; I 
never dare to weep at home. I will stop soon and then 
I will weep no more, but will be cheerful again.” 

He was silent, agitated by her tears, vanquished by her 
grief, which overcame him with a strangely penetrating 
seductiveness, an almost irresistible abandonment to his 
impulses. When Angelica had first entered his rooms, 
calm, smiling, as much at ease as if she were in her own 
house or that of a friend, he had been able to assume 
the same manner and not to speak a word of love; but 
in the presence of her weakness, hearing her sob over her 
incurably wounded heart, her lost dreams, her buried 
youth, and seeing the tears she rained upon that tomb, 
he felt an overmastering longing to clasp her in his arms, 
and to hold her to his breast forever. 

He bent his head, that he might not see the sad face, 
the tender breast that panted like that of a bird. Wear- 
ied at last, she gradually grew calmer, though the sad- 


250 MATILDE SERAO 


ness did not leave her face. He saw that her handker- 
chief was wet with her tears. 

“Pardon me!” she said, after a time, as if just remem- 
bering his presence. 

“Do not speak of that; am I not your friend?” 

“Alas! I am only a very melancholy kind of friend,” 
Angelica replied, with a mournful smile. “I fear I shall 
not bring much happiness into your life.” 

“But I love you thus; I love you just as you are; I 
love you because of your sadness!” he declared ve- 
hemently. 

Angelica remained silent a moment, her eyes fixed on 
a ray of sunlight that shot through the creamy lace cur- 
tain, played over the carpet, and struck a note of vivid 
color on one of the scarlet cushions. She seemed struck 
with a sudden thought, and rose abruptly. 

“I must go now.” 

“No, no!” protested Sangiorgio, in despair, as if he 
had thought such an event must never happen. 

“But I must,” she repeated, seriously. 

“Why?” he asked, like a child. 

“OQh—because!” said she, smiling at the simplicity of 
the question. 

“But stay a little longer—you have only just come.” 

“T have been here a whole hour, and it is growing 
late.” 

“Only a little longer!” he pleaded. 

“I must not; I assure you that I have stayed too long 
already.” 

“Just five minutes! What difference can that make?” 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 251 


“Nothing important, perhaps, but of what use would 
that be? A minute more or less is nothing.” 

“Oh, do not torture me, Angelica! Be kind! give me 
five minutes more!” 

“Very well, but you are altogether too exacting,” she 

said, yielding to him, with a shake of the head like a 
mother bestowing a bonbon upon a child. 
_ They remained standing opposite each other near the 
door of the drawing-room, she slightly annoyed and im- 
patient to go, and he confused and repentant at having 
detained her. A sudden apprehension cast a shadow over 
Sangiorgio’s face. 

“Shall you never come here again?” he asked. 

“Yes, I will come again,” she replied. 

“Ah, you say that, but you will not do it,” he ex- 
claimed, in agitation, unable to overcome this idea. 
“Why deceive me? You are going away, and I never 
shall see you here again! I have a presentiment of it— 
I feel it!” 

“T shall come again, I tell you—I surely shall come 
here again,” Angelica repeated, in the sweet, calm voice 
that always had power to soothe him. And, in order to 
set his mind at rest, she looked into his eyes with one 
of her sweetest, kindest smiles, which wholly reassured 
him. 

“Promise it, then! Will you promise me to come 
again?” 

“Yes, I promise.” 

“By all that you hold most sacred in the world?” 

“By all that I hold most sacred in the world!” 


252 MATILDE SERAO 


“And when will you come again?” asked Sangiorgio. 

“That I cannot say; you know I am not free.” 

“Return soon, Angelica! Oh, can you not mention 
some day, some hour?” 

“To what purpose? Does it bore you so much to wait 
forme? Are you not at home here?” 

“Yes, but at least name some possible day—” 

“Oh, then, you do not wish to wait for me! You have 
more amusing things to do!” 

“No, Angelica, nothing.” 

“Well, then?” 

“Well—if you but knew, my sweet friend, the bitter- 
ness I feel at not knowing when I shall see you again. This 
vague expectancy is a torment, a nightmare, an agony 
that you would pity could you but realize it. Even if 
you mean to deceive me, Angelica, at least name the 
day!” 

“Let me see! To-day is Sunday,” she said, reflecting. 
“It cannot be to-morrow, nor the day after, nor Wednes- 
day—no, all my time is engaged. Thursday, perhaps 
—yes, you may count on Thursday.” 

“Not before?” 

“Who can tell? Perhaps for a minute, in passing, I 
may runin. But Thursday, without fail. Now good-by, 
my friend!” 

“Oh, stay!” he still entreated, holding fast to her hand. 

“Come, come! You are really childish—zgood-by!” 
And she glided swiftly down the stairs, free at last. 

Sangiorgio felt as if part of his life had gone with her, 
as if his heart’s blood were flowing from an open wound. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 253 


Without a further glance at the rooms, he seized his hat 
and left the house hastily, in the wild hope of overtaking 
Angelica. 

The Piazza di Spagna, full of sunlight and of people, 
dazzled him, and instinctively he turned into the Via 
Condotti, but could not descry the gray gown and the 
white veil. 

He turned back toward the Palace of the Propaganda 
of the Faith, as the name still lingered in his mind, but 
she was not there. 

He wandered through all the streets of the neighbor- 
hood, perturbed and breathless, spurred on by the in- 
vincible desire to obtain one more glimpse of the being 
who had appeared to vanish in the sunlight. 

During a whole hour he sought her in the Via Babu- 
ino, the Via di Due Macelli, the Via Sistina, near the 
Villa Medici and the Pincio; everywhere, in short, de- 
voured by a feverish energy that prevented him from 
feeling weary. 

Finally he arrived in the Piazza del Popolo, alone, 
feeling a little calmer, but with tired feet and weary 
brain. It must be late, very late, he thought; he felt all 
the physical and moral lassitude that follows agitating 
experiences. 

He drew out his watch; it was barely half-past one; 
there was still half a day to pass away somehow. Slow- 
ly, mechanically, in obedience to his former habit, he 
turned his steps toward the Chamber, following the 
Corso, with a bored expression, without a glance at the 
handsome Roman bourgeoise women returning home from 


254 MATILDE SERAO 


mass, and not recognizing anyone in the cloud of golden 
dust of that bright Sunday in May. 

Sangiorgio felt that he must seek refuge in the Parlia- 
ment House, not knowing where else to go in his dis- 
tress of mind and body. He wished to find a quiet, cool 
corner, where he could think, dream, and remember. 
It was an hour when many deputies were going and com- 
ing near Montecitorio, returning from luncheon at the 
Colonna, the Parliamente, the Fagiano, or the Sorelle 
Venete. Sangiorgio absentedmindedly acknowledged 
several salutations, and caught in passing several scraps 
of conversation which he did not understand. For- 
tunately, there was a session that day. 

He went to his accustomed seat, mechanically ar- 
ranged his papers before him, and listened to the so- 
norous voice of the secretary, Sangarzia, reading the or- 
der of proceedings. What was he talking about? The 
words escaped his confused brain, yet somehow it seemed 
as if he had heard all that before. 

He made a tremendous effort to collect his mental 
faculties, but his former power of nervous exaltation 
had gone, carrying with it his force and his energy. 
How tired he was! He rested his head on his hands, 
trying to realize the meaning of what was being said, 
but he was conscious that a strange torpor was steal- 
ing over him, an unconquerable desire to sleep. 

He rose, and went out into the corridor to smoke a 
cigar. The Honorable Carimate, the distinguished gen- 
tleman from Lombardy, chairman of an agricultural com- 
mittee, met him there. 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 255 


“Ah, Sangiorgio! When am I to have the report from 
you?” 

“The report? Oh, yes! True! When should I have 
given it to you?” 

“Why, a week ago! You are very slow with it. I 
have been looking for you everywhere. Haven’t you 
received my two letters?” 

“No, neither of them,” Sangiorgio replied, lying. 

“Well, they have attacked us, and I, as chairman, 
was obliged to reply. Have you been ill?” 

“Very ill.” 

“You look as if you had. Be careful of yourself. Are 
you not a little feverish still?” 

“T think so.” 

“Be careful! When shall you be ready, then?” 

“I do not know; in a week, perhaps. I will let you 
know.” 

Sangiorgio returned to the hall, having already for- 
gotten the painful feeling it cost him to lie. The Hon- 
orable Bonova, a very tiresome young deputy, was bor- 
ing the sleepy members with a long speech. The Speak- 
er, from his chair, made a friendly little sign to Sangior- 
gio, who went up to shake hands with him. 

“Tll?” asked the Romagnan of the frank brown eyes. 

“A little.” 

“Why do you not take a short vacation?” 

“I intend to do so; I need it.” 

He returned to his seat, exhausted. A strong feeling 
of irritation possessed him. Five o’clock struck; the sit- 
ting seemed interminable. San Demetrio and Scalia. 


256 MATILDE SERAO 


came to him to ask his opinion regarding a duel between 
a deputy and an editor; he allowed them to see his indif- 
ference to the matter, and barely answered them. 

Everyone tired him, bored him; he felt oppressed by 
the heat, and could hardly breathe. 

He left the Chamber hastily, jumped into a carriage 
and drove to the apartment in the Piazza di Spagna. 
Once there, he flung himself into the armchair where 
Angelica had sat, and, leaning his face against the spot 
that her dear head had pressed, he wept bitterly. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE PANGS OF DESPISED LOVE’ 


NGELICA nearly always broke her appoint- 
ments with Sangiorgio. Sometimes, in the eve- 
ning, while handing him a cup of tea, she would 
whisper: 

“To-morrow, at two o’clock!” 

“Without fail?” 

“Without fail—do not fear.” 

And, relying on her promise, he lived upon it until the 
following day. But at two o’clock she had not yet ar- 
rived; he told himself she had been delayed, called up all 
his patience, watched for her at the window. 

Then he would be seized with doubt; and finally, 
as night fell, he would lose all hope and yield to a pro- 
found despondency. When he met her again, beautiful, 
serene, in all her freshness, apparently without a regret, 
and gracious to everyone, his soul was filled with a 
painful mingling of tenderness and bitterness. 

Never, never would she understand the depth of his 
love and his sufferings! She would excuse herself with 
a vague word, thrown carelessly into the midst of a re- 
cital of the tiresome routine of the preceding day: there 
was always a concert, lecture, a charity fair, some visi- 
tor, or other useless and tiresome thing, that had de- 


tained her. But all the evening she would lavish upon 
17 257 


258 MATILDE SERAO 


him the sweetness of her veiled glances, the light of her 
smile, the grace of her movements, asking him for a 
book, her fan or her handkerchief, in her melodious 
voice, enveloping him, as it were, in tenderest caresses, 
and holding him, fascinated, under her all-powerful 
charm, until he was again vanquished, and accused him- 
self mentally of ingratitude. 

But occasionally she remembered the poor solitary 
lover, who awaited her behind closed doors, while the 
glorious springtime was flinging its fragrance over the 
city, the Campagna, and the flowery hills. 

She would arrive unexpectedly, in the Piazza di 
Spagna, at ten o’clock in the morning or at seven in the 
evening, just as he was about to depart, discouraged. 
Once she came in the midst of one of those violent 
storms that come in May, attended by heavy rain, thun- 
der and lightning. 

These unexpected visits always moved Sangiorgio 
deeply; he could not accustom himself to this supreme 
joy; for him, each appearance of Angelica Vargas was 
a new rapture, a special grace on her part; and her radi- 
ant presence cured the terrible bitterness of the long 
hours of waiting. Sangiorgio, saddened, suffering, ill, 
would suddenly feel himself restored to life and vigor, 
like Lazarus arising from the tomb. 

In the presence of his loved one, he forgot everything 
except that he adored her; he knelt at her feet, kissed her 
hands, and thanked her humbly for not forgetting him, 
like a Christian that, after the bitterest experiences, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 209 


strikes the church pavement with his forehead in render- 
ing thanks for the slightest favor from Heaven. 

Angelica remained in the superior sphere where her 
adorer had placed her, in a solitary niche, sacred, inac- 
cessible, a tabernacle of virtue and purity, whence she 
deigned to incline her eyes upon him, smiling, with 
outstretched hands—a merciful divinity, without weak- 
ness or indulgence, whom pity had not feminized or 
rendered humanly weak. All that she did was a royal 
favor; roses showered from her hands, happiness lay in 
every fold of her gown. She had only to appear, smile, 
and disappear, and very well she acquitted herself of 
this task. 

With all this, Sangiorgio’s own individuality was rap- 
idly becoming effaced. Never did the divinity trouble 
herself to ask what he thought, felt, or suffered 
during her absence; never did she inquire about his 
work, his desires, his ambitions; she had no curiosity 
to know the man as he really was. She called him sim- 
ply Sangiorgio, because his Christian name, Francesco, 
seemed too common and ordinary; and he himself felt 
that such was the case, and was conscious of a certain 
degree of humiliated pride. 

Sitting beside him, her eyes resting on a large black 
velvet cross appliquéd upon the yellow brocaded drape- 
ry, she would talk to him by the hour, obeying a natural 
craving for a sympathetic listener. 

She had many things to say to him—she, who was 
condemned to perpetual silence—regarding her husband’s 
political absorption, his hardness of character, and his 


260 MATILDE SERAO 


ironical speeches. Yes, she had much to say—she, whose 
husband’s exalted station forbade to her all friendship, 
love, or intimacy with anyone. Now she had found a con- 
fidant, the best of confidants, always happy to listen to 
her, always approving all that she said and did; always 
ready to pity or admire her, divining the meaning of her 
lightest word, her every thought. 

He was that rare type of friend for whom all women 
yearn—the ideal man, whose tender curiosity is insa- 
tiable, who understands them, is indulgent toward all 
their little weaknesses, who magnifies and glorifies their 
smallest virtues, turning a word into a poem, a simple 
phrase into an expression of lofty sentiment, a trifling 
kindness into a deed of heroism—in short, the ideal 
lover! ; 

And so, sitting beside him in the silence of the flower- 
scented room, surrounded by rich and luxurious furniture 
and draperies, fixing her eyes on some glittering spot 
in the gold embroideries, she would talk to him of her- 
self, of her heart, of the ineffable sadness which he alone 
could understand, of the trifling joys, the brief pleasures 
that entered into her life. 

The disillusion she had undergone after her marriage 
had not been sudden, but gradual, steady, leading her, 
step by step, into indulgence in bitter reverie, until the 
culmination was complete indifference and a longing for 
solitude. Her sweet ideals of true conjugal happiness, 
her pure and peaceful dreams, the trust of a loyal soul, 
came into contact with the great, burning, selfish pas- 
sion of Don Silvio—politics! The slow but persistent 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 261 


drop of water had done its work of destruction in that 
mind full of dreams and chimerical visions. 

The story of her moral widowhood was long, and the 
recital of her griefs was made in all the varying tones 
of melancholy. 

She made no harsh accusations; no word of violence 
or of hatred ever passed her lips; but there was always 
a tone of sad and innocent recrimination, the cry of a 
wounded heart, uttered with exquisite delicacy but with 
profound grief. 

Sangiorgio listened, without venturing to interrupt 
her, without daring to tell her how he would have adored 
her had fate granted him the supreme joy of giving her 
to him as his wife. 

He listened with avidity to the smallest details of her 
daily trials, sighing over them, feeling all that she felt, 
saturating his mind with her life, which had become his 
own, and in which he had sunk all his own individuality. 
When she turned pale, flushed, or wept in her recital, 
Sangiorgio’s color changed, and his tears flowed in sym- 
pathy. 

Angelica did not hate her husband, for her gentle 
heart knew not how to hate; but she did not love him, 
since he never had loved her. Neither did she respect 
him, since she had been made aware of the degrading 
compromises and chicaneries forced upon him by polit- 
ical exigencies. He had simply become indifferent to 
her, that was all! She said these things in brief, detached 
sentences, with a terrible, icy simplicity, and Sangiorgio 


262 MATILDE SERAO 


trembled at the thought that the day might come when 
she would say the same things about himself. 

He hated Silvio Vargas; he hated him uncompromis- 
ingly as an enemy and as a wicked man; he hated him 
so far as to wish him to be defeated, to wish for his 
dishonor, even his death. Had he not stolen Angelica, 
had he not withered her young heart and destroyed her 
illusions? Had he not rendered her distrustful of hap- 
piness, made her incapable of loving? Was he not her 
legitimate possessor? And Sangiorgio abhorred this hus- 
band with the anger, the jealousy, and the injustice of 
a true lover. 

His fair visitor talked to him of other things than her 
own sorrows, of which she spoke with the ingenuousness 
of a sinless soul, and an innocence that resembled the 
most refined coquetry. She dilated upon her tastes, her 
habits, her daily occupations, the little doings of each 
hour. 

She went to bed late every night, she said, but always 
rose early, as it had been her habit from childhood. No 
one was permitted to enter her room while she was there, 
not even the chambermaid. Her sacred retreat, the sanc- 
tuary where she slept, dreamed, and thought, must not 
be profaned by any idle glances. Did not Sangiorgio 
approve of that?—Certainly, she was quite right, San- 
giorgio would reply, with a throbbing heart, and fire in 
his veins. 

She liked to dress herself and to arrange her hair with 
her own hands, as she had a strong distaste for the 
servile contact, the vulgar babble, the annoying presence 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 263 


of alady’s maid. For a long time, while she was a young 
girl, she had kept her hair cut short and simply parted 
in the middle, that she might not be obliged to have one 
of these tiresome women handling her long tresses. 

One day Sangiorgio begged her tenderly to let down 
her hair, that he might see it in all its length and beau- 
ty; but she objected, saying that it would take her at 
least an hour to rearrange it. He supplicated in vain, but 
she promised to grant his request some other day, when 
time was not so pressing. 

Every morning, when her toilet was finished, she went 
into her boudoir, where she read, played upon her piano, 
or attended to her correspondence—always alone. She 
wrote letters to her friends, or replied to persons who 
sent her begging letters or asked for recommendations; 
she wrote very rapidly, on white paper, without seal, 
crest, or monogram. 

Once Sangiorgio asked her for a line of her handwriting, 
of which he never had seen a single word. Only one 
line! She consented, but he searched the apartment in 
vain for a pen, an inkstand, or a scrap of paper. In 
this temple of love, the implements necessary to work 
were wholly lacking. Angelica smiled, finding this very 
amusing. 

The charming confidences continued. At half-past 
eleven o’clock she and her husband usually met at break- 
fast. In the morning she always felt very hungry, being 
young and healthy. It would have pleased her to laugh 
and chat and jest at this agreeable hour, but Vargas was 
always sallow, irritated, and bored early in the day. He 


264 MATILDE SERAO 


hardly touched anything, since his appetite was destroyed 
by the fever of politics. He read the newspapers, his 
letters and telegrams, just as he did at the Chamber, or 
at Cabinet meetings. 

Ah, how greatly she preferred solitude to the society 
of this wizened, frowning old man, who let his cutlet 
grow cold on his plate, who forgot his dessert—always 
silent, always preoccupied! And, seized with one of the 
startling caprices of a virtuous woman, she proposed to 
her astonished adorer that they should go, early some 
sunny morning, to a little rustic village, where they 
would find one of those wayside inns covered with vines, 
and have breakfast there like two schoolchildren on a 
holiday. 

“Why do you torment me thus? Why do you suggest 
such things to me?” said Sangiorgio, with mournful re- 
proach. 

“I torment you—I?” 

“We never could carry out such an escapade as that.” 

“Oh, yes, we could!” she declared, smiling with glee 
at her child-like dream. 

Then, after breakfast Angelica Vargas began her pub- 
lic life, her worldly existence; she made the round of the 
shops, and visited her tailor and dressmaker. She liked 
gowns of rich simplicity, preferring black costumes, as 
Sangiorgio had seen her attired when he had observed 
her for the first time, on the day he arrived in Rome. 

Later in the day, there were visits to make and to re- 
ceive, charity bazaars to attend, benefit concerts, diplo- 
matic receptions, inaugurations, lectures, art exhibitions 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 265 


—the public business of life, empty and wearisome. Ah, 
how much happier she would be were she only the wife 
of a quiet and intellectual man, modest, calm, disdaining 
power, and the struggle to attain it! 

“Your wife, Sangiorgio!”’ she added. 

“Angelica!” he cried, in anguish. 

She did not understand. Sangiorgio knew her whole 
life, her soul, her thoughts, but she did not know San- 
giorgio. 

By-and-by a change came into their secret life. 

Angelica became accustomed to these visits, little by 
little, and after a time she came often, with a matter-of- 
course air, free and unrestrained, without a shadow of 
emotion of embarrassment. Her face was serene, her 
glance clear and frank, her expression innocent. 

She would enter the apartment in exactly the same 
way that she entered a friend’s drawing-room, speaking 
in well-modulated tones, with graceful gestures, and 
pleasant smile. It seemed to her a very simple thing to 
drop in at Sangiorgio’s rooms, after he had left the Cham- 
ber, and before it was time for her to call upon the Rus- 
sian ambassador’s wife, or some one else. She would 
stay a short time, asking his advice, perhaps, about a 
new frock, or some trinket, a Renaissance inkstand or a 
vase by Capodimonte. One day, unthinkingly, she said, 
“I was just passing, and thought you might be in, so I 
rang.” 

Another time, while he was peeping out of the win- 
dow behind the curtains, not daring to raise the window, 
although the heat was stifling, for fear of being recog- 


266 MATILDE SERAO 


nized, he saw her walking slowly along in front of the 
shops, with her rhythmic step. He started, and was 
tempted to call out to her, to make some signal; but his 
voice and his courage failed, and she went her way with- 
out even turning her head toward the house. 

But at the corner of the Via Babuina, she seemed sud- . 
denly to recall something; she stopped, and threw a 
glance at the windows of the first floor., A smile lighted 
her face when she discerned that pale and eager face be- 
hind the pane; she turned her steps toward the house, 
and came upstairs to chat with him a few minutes. 

These meetings with a man who loved her, in that 
mysterious house, in an apartment to which no one else 
could penetrate, somehow did not impress her as being 
wrong or traitorous. 

In fact, they became a fixed habit. She shook hands 
with him within those doors as if she were meeting him 
in the street; she asked him to button her glove, as if 
they were at a ball; she bore herself toward him pre- 
cisely as she would have done in her own drawing-room, 
surrounded by guests; talked on subjects grave or gay, 
as it happened; allowed him to read her letters, and, in 
short, was always familiar, simple, gay and friendly, 
without ever speaking of love, or thinking of it. 

But it was different with Sangiorgio. This intimacy, 
these confidences, these long talks in that warm, quiet 
room, filled with flowers, that hand which she allowed 
him to kiss, that round arm which sometimes leaned 
gently on his own, those waving tresses which seemed to 
call for caresses—all these charms and feminine graces 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 267 


penetrated his whole being, overwhelming nerves and 
senses. 

He was only a man, after all, and when that divine 
face leaned close to his, when he inhaled the fragrance 
of that dark hair, when that graceful form half reclined 
in an armchair, shaken by a sob or by a burst of laughter, 
when that white brow was drawn in thought, he had to 
struggle with an irresistible desire to clasp her in a ten- 
der and passionate embrace. 

He tried in vain to drive away this thought and to 
force his mind to dwell in the pure region of their earlier 
days; but, in spite of his firm will, he fell more and more 
under the charm of her witchery. His robust tempera- 
ment, serious and simple, became possessed with one 
overmastering desire. It was a daily struggle to hide 
the truth in his eyes, to dissimulate the trembling of 
his lips, to prevent his longing arms from pressing her 
to his breast. He was only a man, after all! 

His adored one smiled upon him, came close to his 
side, whispered in his ear, unconscious, innocent, cruel 
—and he forced himself to smother his emotion and shut 
his eyes to temptation. He had promised—yes, he had 
promised—not to speak of love, but why did she not 
understand? What sort of woman was she? And how 
long could he play this cruel, atrocious game? But— 
he had promised! 

This struggle could not last, however. How much 
longer must he endure this martyrdom? It had grown 
beyond his strength—to have her there, near him, beau- 
tiful, young, adored, in silence and solitude—it was too 


268 MATILDE SERAO 


much! He would not break his promise, but he would 
beg her to take away the temptation of her lips, to leave 
him, never to return. 

One morning in June, when telling him about a new 
style of coiffure that she had adopted, she wished to let 
down her hair, so that he might see its length. 

“No, no!” he murmured. 

“Why?” she asked innocently. 

“It would be too much for me—TI could not endure it.” 

“Not endure it?” 

He said no more. She took off her hat, laughing, 
pulled out three long hairpins and a shell comb, and 
shook the dark mass of hair over her shoulders, laugh- 
ing all the time like a playful child. 

’ “How beautiful it is—how beautiful!” said Sangiorgio 
in a stifled voice, as he lifted one curl and kissed it. 7 

“May I go into your bedroom to arrange it?” Angelica 
asked, all pink and blooming under that silky mantle. 

She never had shown any curiosity to see that room, 
but, without waiting for Sangiorgio’s word of permis- 
sion, she entered it immediately, her manner perfectly 
frank, confident, a little amused. 

She stopped short at the sight of the blue velvet cur- 
tains bordered with silver, so rich and luxurious in sug- 
gestion. She felt a little timid, and passed the shell 
comb through her hair mechanically, without looking at 
herself in the Pompadour mirror, her mind filled with 
strange thoughts. 

Suddenly she noticed the blue quilt, with her own 
initial embroidered in a long Gothic letter. She uttered 





268 ve MATILITS SERAO 


mucht He would a: bin ie peemine, But he would 
beg her te tele weny te snipe lie eS ee 
hie. newer te FeaeTa. Be 7 
sg ie Jeet, whew sath is shout 2 new 

eye ib lites tin Gre Sad ~atagiadd, she wishes to let 
sepesdgsaongpshanhian’ sign aalmarsmcinat i 

“No, no!” he eae 

“Why?” hs sie eal: 

“Tt weul be too much for me—T could not erature it.” 

“Net endure it?” 

He said no more. She took of eae hat, Senet: 
pulled out three long hairpins and a shell comb, and 
shook the dark mass of hair over. gd shoulders, laugh- 
















in G18 BRED AND LOOKED ‘bE GIORGIO'S 
“How B¥ES}i WHEREIN SH: “or 
in a stifigt caplet opiyinar | Ki 
“May I go into your bedre it?” Angelica 


asked, all pink and blooming dder that silky mantle. 
She never had shown any curiosity to see that room, 
but, without waiting for Sangiorgia’s ; 
sion, she entered it immediately be 
frank, confident, 2 little amused. = : 
| She stopped short at the sight of “be ise velvet cur. 
taius bordered with silver, ‘se righ ead Seenrious in sug- 
gestion. She felé = Hetle timid, act passed the sheil 
comb, through her heir mechanitaily, without looking at 
herself in the Pompadour mirror, her mind filled with 
strange thoughts. 
Suddenly she noticed the blue quilt, with her own 
initial embroidered in a long Gothic letter. She uttered 








THE CONQUEST OF ROME 269 


a cry of pain and surprise; then she turned and looked 
deep into Sangiorgio’s eyes, wherein she read the truth. 

Silently, hurriedly, she fastened up her hair, left the 
bedroom, put on her hat and gloves, and went away 
without a word or a glance. 


CHAPTER XIX 
ROME, THE CONQUEROR 


ANGIORGIO stood idly under the great porch of 
Montecitorio, while the ushers were extin- 
guishing the gas throughout the palace. He 
gazed at the starry heavens, and still lingered, 

reluctant to make up his mind to go home. 

A tall, thin figure, with bent shoulders, approached 
him. The man was smoking a cigar; he stopped beside 
the deputy, and spoke. 

“Good evening, Sangiorgio. Are you at liberty?” 

“Good evening, Vargas. Yes, I am at liberty, and 
very much at your service.” 

“TI wish to speak to you.” 

“Shall we go to your private office, in here?” 

“No, not to my office.” 

“To your house, then?” 

“No, not there, either. I prefer to go to your apart- 
ment, Sangiorgio,” replied the Minister dryly, raising his 
eyes to meet Sangiorgio’s. 

“As you will,” the deputy replied coolly, understand- 
ing instantly that a crisis was coming. “Let us go.” 

They crossed the Piazza Colonna silently, smoking 
their cigars and apparently interested only in their long 


shadows, cast upon the ground in the bright moonlight. 
270 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME ait 


At the corner of the Corso, Sangiorgio was about to turn 
toward his lodgings. 

“That way?” said Silvio Vargas suspiciously. 

“Certainly.” 

“Do you not live at Number Sixty-two, Piazza di 
Spagna?” 

“You are right,” was the frigid reply. 

Again they relapsed into silence, and continued their 
way along the Corso, passing people coming out of the 
summer theaters, who, recognizing the tall form of the 
Minister, murmured his name to one another as he went 
by. The Via Condotti and the Piazza di Spagna were 
deserted. 

Sangiorgio had a key to the door of Number 62, al- 
though he never went there at night. 

When they began the ascent of the dark stairway, he 
struck a match and preceded Silvio Vargas. 

The antique lamp was burning in the anteroom, throw- 
ing a subdued, mysterious light on the old marriage- 
chest and the tall, carved, high-backed chairs. 

In the sitting-room, the deputy felt a sudden embar- 
rassment as to how to find a light, since he never had 
had occasion to use one there. Finally he found a slen- 
der candlestick of Pompeian bronze, and lighted its three 
pink candles. 

Silvio Vargas seated himself; he had thrown away his 
cigar and left his hat in the anteroom. He bent his 
head, allowed his monocle to fall from his eye, and ap- 
peared lost in thought. 

“T am waiting, Silvio Vargas,’ 


’ 


said Sangiorgio, with 


272 MATILDE SERAO 


great difficulty repressing any hint of impatience in his 
voice. 

“I was thinking, Sangiorgio,” said the Minister calmly, 
“of what a very strong desire you must have to kill me.” 

“Very strong.” 

“It must now be almost irresistible.” 

“Yes—almost irresistible.” 

“You are wrong, Sangiorgio,” Vargas continued, with 
perfect mildness. “Why do you wish to kill me? I am 
old—very old; Death will soon accomplish his work.” 

“Silvio!” cried Sangiorgio, suddenly touched with re- 
morse. 

“It is true. I am seventy years old, but I have lived 
ten lives. I am worn out, finished, exhausted. Some 
day I shall collapse, as at a single violent blow. You 
might be my son, Sangiorgio. You would not kill your 
father in order to gain his wealth, would you?” 

“Do not speak to me like that, I beg!” 

“Yes, let me go on. We will not fight each other, al- 
though I have a right to challenge you, because we 
should only seem ridiculous—I, so near the tomb, you, 
so young, yet not having the patience to wait. Yes, we 
should be ridiculous. I can understand the dramatic 
element in such cases, when it is a question of youth and 
love, but I could not endure making myself a subject for 
laughter. Anything is better than ridicule.” 

“True—very true!” 

“And then—there is Angelica—she must not suffer. 
To-day, when she threw herself into my arms, trembling 
with fear, begging me to save her—do not be jealous, 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 273 


Sangiorgio, she is only a daughter to me!—although I 
knew her secret, I did not strive to soothe her, for those 
tears, those sobs, that despair were the revolt of a pure 
conscience.” 

“You knew her whole secret?” 

“From the very first day. She could not recall the 
date of her first visit here, but I knew that it was on 
Sunday, the first day of May. She confessed that she 
had come here fifteen times, but I knew that she came 
eighteen times in all—I am the Minister of the Interior! 
I did not reproach her, any more than I reproach you at 
this moment. You are right to love each other.” 

Sangiorgio raised his humbled head, and looked at the 
sad old husband with inexpressible remorse. 

“Naturally,” the Minister went on, “as Angelica is 
young, beautiful, and clever, she needed a congenial 
young companion, who would know how to appreciate 
all her attractions, and would make her life happy and 
gay. Instead, she is tied to a withered, cynical, cold ofd 
man, possessed by a single exacting, overwhelming pas- 
sion—ambition! It is the passion of most men who have 
passed their fortieth year. 

“Angelica preferred you to me; you knew how to love 
—you, who are not ambitious, you, who are ignorant of 
this ceaseless fever of the mind, you, whose heart is full 
of faith and enthusiasm, you, who prize above all things 
the joys of love. Whocould blame you? You are wise; 
it is I that am the madman, to struggle forever to attain 
a mere vulgar illusion, while you possess the divine real- 


ity. I have no words of reproach for you.” 
18 


274 , MATILDE SERAO 


Sangiorgio listened, with his face hidden in his hands. 

“Besides,” pursued the Minister, as if speaking to him- 
self, “that great thing called Man—that wonderful force, 
that power—is ruled by a supreme law which says to 
him: Do one thing and nothing else, if you do not wish 
to sink into mediocrity and uselessness. Have but a 
single passion, one sole ideal, from which nothing can 
turn you. Love, science, politics, art—these highest 
forms of human passion—are overmastering; each is so 
vast, so absorbing that the weak human mind cannot em- 
brace them all at once. A man cannot be a lover and a 
scientist, an artist and a politician, without falling far 
short of greatness in each path he follows. He must 
choose: great passions are selfish, and demand great 
sacrifices.” 

“What is the wish of Signora Vargas?” Sangiorgio 
demanded abruptly, rousing himself from the spell of 
bitter reflection under which he had fallen. 

“That you leave Rome!” 

“IT will go. For how long?” 

“For as long a time as possible.” 

“T will tender my resignation. May I see her once 
more? I swear to you that I meditate no wrong toward 
you in making this request.” 

“She prefers not to see you again.” 

“Very well! But may I write to her?” 

“She begs that you will spare her. Pray try to under- 
stand her reserve.” 

“T understand. Silvio Vargas, tell me, in the name of 
God, in this, the bitterest hour of my life, is it you that 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 275 


compel her to all this or she is free to do whatever she 
chooses?” 

“I swear to you that she is free, my son,” said the 
Minister gently. “No one constrains her. You may see 
her if you wish—I shall make no opposition. But it 
would be better for you to avoid seeing her,” he added, 
in a hollow voice. 

“Does she suffer?” 

“She has suffered.” 

“What does she say of me?” 

“She counts upon your love.” 

“Very well! Say to her that I will go away, and never 
return. Farewell, Silvio Vargas!” 

“Farewell, Sangiorgio!” 

And, reaching the great portico, they parted in the 
silence of the night. 

“One word more, Silvio,” said Sangiorgio, pausing and 
turning toward the Minister. “You knew that I loved 
Angelica, and that she came here. How was it that you 
feared nothing?” 

“Because I know my wife!” Vargas replied signifi- 
cantly, as he turned and went on his way. 

Francesco Sangiorgio understood. Like Silvio Var- 
gas, he now knew Angelica—the woman that knew not 
how to love! 


While the House was still in session, Sangiorgio stole 
unobserved to the Speaker’s private suite of rooms, and 
there wrote a letter tendering his resignation, giving as 
a reason his failing health—a brief note, with no other 
details. 


276 MATILDE SERAO 


After handing it to the usher, he sank upon a large 
armchair covered with yellow satin; he felt old and 
weak, as if just recovering from a long illness. 

He waited and waited, without daring to return to that 
Chamber whence he was exiling himself by his own act. 
He dared not show himself; he feared that his heart 
would fail him, and that he might fling himself on the 
floor and weep over the death of all his hopes. . 

The usher returned with a reply from the Speaker: 
the Chamber, according to custom, granted him a three- 
months’ leave of absence, at the request of the Honor- 
able Melillo. 

Did they not understand, then, that he wished to take 
a final departure? | 

He sent another message to the Speaker, to the effect 
that his malady would prevent his fulfilling the duties of 
a deputy; then he paced to and fro in the Speaker’s sit- 
ting-room like a caged lion. 

The usher returned once more. 

The Chamber accepted his resignation, and the Speaker 
added a few words of regret, wishing him a speedy re- 
turn to health. That was all; everything was over. 

Mechanically, Sangiorgio felt for his medal—his joy, 
his pride, his fetich—and it appeared to him smaller, 
thinner than before. He left the place immediately, re- 
sisting the desire to look once more at the halls, the cor- 
ridors, the buffet, the library, the room of the Lost Foot- 
steps. He departed without giving a single glance to 
all this, fearing to meet too many deputies, to be pressed 
for too many explanations, to be obliged to shake too 


THE CONQUEST OF ROME 277 


many hands. He knew that at the first spoken farewell 
he should burst into tears, like a youth whose father has 
closed his doors against him. 

When he reached the Piazza di Montecitorio, he felt as 
if all were void and empty within him and around him. 
He had nothing more to do, he knew not where to go, 
and he must not seek anyone. He had no desire to eat, 
to walk, or to talk; everything seemed useless—every- 
thing! Instinctively he sought refuge in his old lodg- 
ings in the Via Angela Custode, which was now reeking 
with the unpleasant odors of summer in the city, and 
gray with dust. 

He threw himself on his bed, with his face buried in 
the pillow, his arms inert, his brain whirling. He had 
not tried to see Angelica—of what use would it be? 
Why not submit quietly to the inflexibility of fate? 

All was futile, utterly useless. He owed a large sum 
of money to an upholsterer, another at a bank—but what 
mattered it? He would pay them later, at some uncer- 
tain date, or he might be absolutely ruined. All the 
worse, but nothing had power to move him now, all was 
futile, useless. 

He had no desire to pay a last visit to the apartment 
in the Piazza di Spagna, still warm and fragrant with 
the beloved presence; he did not wish to kiss the chair 
where she had sat. His thoughts were drowned in con- 
templation of the past—but the past must be forgotten. 
He did not even wish to take one last walk in Rome—the 
beloved city, the city of his dreams, which he was about 
to leave forever. 


278 MATILDE SERAO 


No, all was futile, useless! Better to lie there, on that 
miserable little bed in his furnished lodgings, surrounded 
by dirt and evil smells, than to go out to see and hear, to 
feel and to regret, since all was ended forever. 


This is surely a somnambulist, this man with fixed and 
absent gaze, who paces to and fro in the waiting-room at 
the railway-station, having purchased a _ second-class 
ticket for a remote village of the Basilicata, since he had 
not money enough to travel first-class. 

He must indeed be a somnambulist—this man that 
stumbles as he walks, jostling against other persons, and 
paying no attention to his luggage, nor to the summer 
breezes sweeping through the room, nor to anything. 
Like a somnambulist, he wanders mechanically toward 
his place in the train, guided by the voice of the guard. 

Ah, what a long dream! The shrill whistle of the en- 
gine arouses the pale traveler; he springs to the door of 
his coach and gazes wistfully upon Rome—dark, im- 
mense, overwhelming, enthroned upon her seven hills, 
studded with dazzling lights. 

He sinks back upon the seat, like one smitten with 
death, for, in very truth, Rome has conquered him! 


AN 
INNOCENT BARABBAS 


BY 
GRAZIA DELEDDA 


TRANSLATED BY JAMES C. BROGAN 


279 





GRAZIA DELEDDA 


The author of “An Innocent Barabbas” is a native 
and resident of Sardinia, and has made for herself a 
high reputation by the production of novels and sketches 
depicting the peculiarities of life and character in that 
island—a new field for the romancer. Her first novel, 
Anime Oneste (“Honest Souls”) is supposed to be largely 
autobiographic. Elias Portolu, while it has an old plot, 
derives its strength from its vivid portraiture of a family 
of typical Sardinians—rough, narrow-minded, but honest 
in their simplicity. Her J] Vecchio della Montagna (“The 
Old Man of the Mountain”) is her most ambitious novel 


and is considered her masterpiece. 


281 





AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 


HE poorest man in one of the poorest villages in 
Sardinia was Chircu Oroveru, better known as 
Barabbas, because he had once represented that 
famous Biblical character in a miracle play. 

Zio (Uncle) Chircu Barabbas was poor, indeed poorer 
even than the beggars. His possessions were limited 
to a single shirt, a single pair of linen drawers, a single 
pair of breeches, made of the coarse cloth that the Sar- 
dinian peasant women weave in such quantities, and a 
cap, which he had fashioned himself out of the skin of 
a hare. He had no buttons to his shirt, no waistcoat, no 
cloak, no socks; and he had no shoes, either—a terrible 
deprivation in that rocky island. 

Yet he was healthy and robust, handsome, too, remind- 
ing one of the typical Celt: a figure tall and well-propor- 
tioned, reddish hair, and eyes that had always a smile 
in them. Was it his fault that he had been reared as 
ke had—that he had never learned anything except to 
cut wood in the forest, bring it into the town, and sell 
it? It was the sole trade he knew. And, besides, he was 
so harmless—harmless as a lizard or a seven-year-old 
child. All his patrimony, in addition to the: aforesaid 
wardrobe, consisted of a silver medal he had worn round 
his neck since he was a baby, an ax, a horsehair rope 


he had woven himself, and a pocket-knife. 
283 


284 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


In spite of all this, he was often in the best of spirits, 
and on the whole was more at his ease than Signor 
Saturnino Solitta, the rich capitalist, whose vast new 
mansion looked as if it had been built of slabs of solid 
snow. Zio Chircu passed most of his days in the forest, 
so beautiful at all times and all seasons—beautiful when 
the evergreens were covered with their pale, golden flow- 
ers, or when the azure noontides of summer lay heavy 
on its languid foliage, or when it was silent, all green 
and humid, against the pearly background of an autum- 
nal sky, or when its branches bent under the rime crys- 
tallized by the winter’s cold—and nothing to break the 
silence but the wood-cutter’s ax, and the continuous 
tac, tac, tac of the wood smitten by it, and the checp, 
cheep of a woodcock near the grass-bordered fountain 
two hundred yards away. Nothing more. Zio Chircu 
repeated a prayer, or meditated on the wisdom of taking 
his wood to the houses that paid best, or thought of the 
time when he should be able to buy a pair of shoes. 

He had reached the age of forty-five, when one fine 
day he was accosted by two men in dark-blue uniforms 
with yellow buttons on their tunics. 

“What are you doing in the forest?” he was asked. 

“Can’t you see for yourselves?” he answered, stopping, 
bent almost double under his load, but with his frank 
eyes raised to meet theirs. 

“You own land in the forest then—eh?” 

He burst out laughing, then stretched out his neck and 
looked at one of his naked feet: 

“Why, you see that I haven’t even a pair of shoes 


yp? 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 285 


“Then you are acting in contravention of the laws— 
unless you have been authorized to cut wood.” 

“No, I have asked nobody’s leave. I have my own 
leave. If I hadn’t, I should die of hunger.” 

“Then you are acting in contravention of’— 

“Contra—contra—Say it again.” 

“Contravention of the laws.” 

“But what does it mean?” 

“It means that you will have to pay a fine or go to 
prison.” 

Zio Chircu no longer felt any inclination to laugh; on 
the contrary, his face became very gloomy. 

“Why, I have been cutting wood for thirty years, and 
no one ever told me that I should stop it, and die of 
hunger.” | 

The two forest-keepers were apparently moved. 

“But what can we do, old fellow! That is as the law 
goes at present, and it has to be obeyed. We'll let you 
alone for this time. But take care that we don’t catch 
you at it again.” 

They did, however, catch him at it again, several 
times. At last they had to act. He was arrested while 
carrying his bundle, and was summoned before the 
magistrate. The guards were not ill-natured, they even 
pitied him. But what could they do? Their duty was 
to see that the law was respected. 

Zio Chircu had to appear before the justice of the 
peace for the district, and was mulcted in a heavy fine; 
for all the witnesses were owners of the forest lands, and 


‘286 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


declared that he was one of the most desperate ravagers 
of the woodland in the whole neighborhood. 

The magistrate gave him time to pay the fine. But 
he knew he had no means of paying it, and that he would 
have to go to jail. This seemed to him like a horrible 
dream, and he suffered as he never had suffered in his 
life. In a few days he grew ten years older; he became 
dirtier and more ragged than ever, and there was a 
dull look in his eyes that never had been there before. 
Ah, no! he did not wish to go to prison, at least as 
long as the pleasantest season of the year lasted. And 
he did not wish to go during the bad season, either: it 
was in winter that he got the best price for his wood, _ 
and sold most of it. 

Then he made a bargain with another native of the 
village, and took to the woods; he was accustomed to 
them, and it did not concern him should he never see 
the place of his birth again. He cut the wood, and the 
other man carried it away and sold it. This man robbed 
him of half what was due him. Zio Chircu knew it, 
but was forced to keep silence. 

He had a deep sense of the misfortune that had 
crushed him. He was obliged to go farther and farther 
into the forest, and most of the time he had to do the 
cutting at night, when the moon was descending on the 
lonely woods, and when the fac, tac, tac of the ax, echo- 
ing in the mysterious silence of the moonlight, answered 
the tu-whit, tu-whoo of the owl, which seemed to come 
now from the somber depths of the forest, and now to 
be falling from the pale, translucent sky. 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 287 


Thus passed the autumn, thus the winter; and then 
came the spring. Zio Chircu was extremely miserable, 
almost naked, with hair and beard wildly tangled; and 
sometimes he suffered from hunger, but still he refused 
to surrender. No, no; he had not surrendered during 
the keen cold of winter. Should he do so now, when 
the sun shed a delicious warmth in the thinned copses 
perfumed with cyclamens and violets? No, no. Time 
enough to surrender next winter—there was plenty of 
time! 

One day when he was crossing the moor from one 
wood to another, fortune seemed to have smiled upon 
him at last. He found a big red portfolio under a bush, 
two pocket-books and several documents, somewhat in- 
jured by the dew. 

He examined his windfall: no money; but perhaps the 
papers had some value; perhaps he would receive a re- 
ward when he returned them—he picked up everything 
and went on his way; and then, when he met the friend 
who sold his wood for him—that friend knew how to 
read—he told him everything. 

“May the devil fly away with both of us!” cried the 
friend, staring at Zio Chircu with a suspicious look in 
his eyes, “if all this did not belong to Signor Saturnino 
Solitta !” 

Zio Chircu shivered with fear and horror. Signor 
Saturnino Solitta had been robbed and murdered a short 
time ago, on his way back from Cagliari, where he had 
sold an immense drove of hogs. Evidently the assassin, 
after taking the money, had got rid of the portfolio, 


288 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


pocket-books and papers by flinging them under the 
bush. “Look, drafts, cheques, papers worth coined 
money, I tell you!” said the friend, who had once been a 
servant in the house of a wealthy family. “See, they 
call this sort of thing a cheque. If you take it to a shop 
in Nuoro you’ll get money for it.” 

“But I don’t wish to. They might think I was the 
assassin.” 

“Well, if you don’t you are an infernal idiot. It was 
two or three months ago. Do you fancy that anyone in 
Nuoro still remembers that old story? You do as I tell 
you, go in as if you were a servant, buying something 
or other, take the change they’ll give you back, and 
there you are! You can return here without anyone 
troubling you.” 

“But—wouldn’t it be like—stealing?” 

“Devil take you for a fool! How could it be stealing 
when there’s no owner for it? The stealing was done 
by the fellow that sent a bullet through the other fel- 
low’s neck. Perhaps, after all, it was yourself?” 

“You’d crack a joke about anything, you rascal!” cried 
Zio Chircu, laughing so naturally that the other man’s 
strange suspicions were completely routed. 

“Well, then, why not change this cheque? And if 
there was any unpleasantness, you could say you found 
it. You can bring me in as a witness, and I’ll prove it. 
But such a blockhead I never met in my life. Don’t 
you see that the rags you wear scarcely cover you?” 

“Yes, that is true. But isn’t that just the trouble? 
Won’t they have their suspicions when they see me so 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 289 


ragged? Except for that, it might be done. After ail 
you have said to me, I don’t think I ought to feel any 
scruples.” 

“T’ll lend you my cloak, shoes and stockings.” 

“You'll have to lend me also your waistcoat and cap.” 

“You want all my clothes, then?” 

“Yes, if you’re willing to lend them to me.” 

“But then—I ought to have something in return”— 

_ “Of course. What should you like? Ill buy you 
anything you wish for.” 

“Anything you like to get for me yourself.” 

For a time Zio Chircu Barabbas felt almost happy, or, 
at least, not so wretched as usual. He thought of the 
fine things he was going to purchase—the shoes, the 
waistcoat, the new ax. And he would also buy things 
to eat—bread, wine, bacon. Not but that, in the inmost 
recesses of his soul, he had many doubts, many misgiv- 
ings. On the whole, however, didn’t he find what he 
had found? And if the worst came to the worst, he 
was simple enough to believe that he had only to tell 
the truth, and he would be relieved from further trouble. 

And then, his partner—and he met him now oftener 
than usual in the forest—kept up his spirits and encour- 
aged him; and one day he even said that if Zio CHircu 
was afraid he would go himself and change the cheque. 
But Zio Chircu remembered how this man had swindled 
him in the sale of the wood, and he prudently thought 
that if anybody had to go and change the cheque, he 
had better do so himself. So he set out for Nuoro. 


After entering the city, he made straight for a shoe 
19 


290 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


shop. He would first buy a pair of stout shoes of yellow 
leather with big nails that shone like silver and long 
shoe-strings of black leather. He tried them on, laced 
them, unlaced them, then put on the shoes of his friend, 
which pinched his enormous brown feet painfully. His 
heart beat when he drew out the dead man’s cheque. 
The shopkeeper took the cheque and examined it; not a 
muscle of his face stirred; and yet, at that very moment, 
he was deciding the fate of poor Barabbas. 

“I have no change at hand,” he said. “But, if you 
wait a minute, I'll send this to a neighbor, who will 
change it.” 

Zio Chircu felt a little uneasy, but he made no ob- 
jection. 

Meanwhile, he thought he would take off his friend’s 
shoes again and put on the new ones, which were more 
comfortable, although a little too heavy. 

“They are as hard as the hide of the devil,” he said 
to himself as he felt them, bending his head almost to 
the floor; “but when I grease them well, they’ll become 
easy enough. And aren’t they fine! I never saw any- 
thing so beautiful!” 

The clerk whom the shopkeeper had sent to change 
the cheque did not return, and the shopkeeper, growing 
anxious and nervous, was going to the door every min- 
ute and looking out. At last, the clerk made his appear- 
ance; and behind him entered immediately a well-dressed 
gentleman, with thick red lips; and behind the gentle- 
man entered two policemen. Zio Chircu felt as if his 
heart stood still; he guessed what was about to happen, 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 291 


and, for a second or two, he was frightened. But he 
thought: “I will tell the truth and it will be all right.” 

“Who gave you this paper?” asked the gentleman with 
the thick lips. 

“T found it,” answered the wood-cutter, respectfully. 
He had risen to his feet, and still held his friend’s shoes 
in his hand. 

“Where did you find it?” 

He related everything as it had occurred. 

“My good man,” said the gentleman, in a somewhat 
mild tone of voice—perhaps he was afraid that this vig- 
orous-looking savage might be dangerous, if driven to 
extremity—“you will be kind enough to come with us 
and explain the matter to the Signor Ispettore.” 

And Zio Chircu followed him willingly, hoping that 
he had only to tell the truth to be believed. But still 
he was conscious of a mysterious dread, a secret pre- 
sentiment of something frightful about to happen. 

When they entered the office, the gentleman and the 
policemen changed their tone. Zio Chircu was inter- 
rogated anew, and this time very sternly, by another 
gentleman, who was pale and bald. Then he was un- 
dressed and searched. The objects that had belonged to 
the dead man were found on him, and he was at once 
looked upon as the assassin of Saturnino Solitta. 

He was thrown into prison and subjected to long and 
cruel examinations. Every day there were gentlemen 
coming to torture him with their questions—spectacled 
graybeards and young men with blond moustaches; and 
all these made the strangest inquiries of him, and in- 


292 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


sisted on his telling them when, and how, he had killed 
Signor Saturnino Solitta. 

“But I have killed nobody,” he answered. “I found 
those things you took from me, and I didn’t even know 
what they were. A friend advised me to use the cheque, 
and, as I was longing for a pair of shoes, I took his 
advice. If you don’t believe me, ask him!” 

The friend was sent for and questioned. He acknowl- 
edged he had lent the prisoner his clothes—which he 
asked to have back. He had also lent him his socks; 
but he swore he knew nothing and had never given 
Chircu any advice. 

“The dirty scoundrel!” thought Zio Chircu to himself. 
“Ah, I might have suspected it after the way he cheated 
me in selling the wood!” 

And, to be revenged, he said to the judge: 

“If he didn’t give me advice, neither did he give me 
his duds.” 

He reasoned: “Now they won’t be given back to him.” 
And then he repented, and recanted what he had said. 
No, he would never again offend his Lord and Saviour, 
for he was sure that this misfortune had befallen him 
as a punishment for laying his hands on what did not 
belong to him. 

During the long hours in his cell he was plagued by 
a sort of instinctive homesickness for the great lonely 
woods and the free sky, and he felt unhappy, terribly un- 
happy. He recalled the period when he hid in the thick- 
ets, and all the sufferings he had endured, and it seemed 
to him now that he had sinned grievously by complain- 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 293 


ing of them. His life then was full of happiness com- 
pared with what it was now. And yet he did not form 
any correct idea of the tribulation that was on the watch 
for him. He was always hopeful of being set at liberty 
, some time or other, and that soon; and every night, dur- 
ing the drowsiness that preceded sleep, he believed he 
heard the tac, tac, tac of the ax resounding through the 
silence of the forest, accompanied by the owl’s slow and 
melancholy cry. 

A long time passed in this fashion. Nobody apparently 
had a thought for Zio Barabbas; nobody came to see 
him, or sent him a cigar or a measure of wine or a loaf 
or a clean shirt; while the most wretched among the 
other prisoners were sure to receive something some 
time or other. And even the old gentleman with the 
shining spectacles, which gave one a shiver even to 
look at; and the young men with the blond moustaches, 
and the others with the bald heads and pale faces, had all 
seemingly forgotten poor Chircu. 

But one day he received a sheet of paper, partly 
printed and partly written; his heart was trembling while 
it was being read to him. It was the decree that sent 
him to stand his trial before the Court of Assizes. Next, 
he had a visit from his counsel, a bilious young man, 
not very keenly interested in his client. He, too, wanted 
to force Zio Chircu to relate how and when he had as- 
sassinated Signor Saturnino Solitta. 

“Tell me the truth,” he repeated. “You must tell the 
whole truth to your lawyer. Then we may be able to 
arrange things.” 


294 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


At certain moments Zio Chircu was tempted to de- 
clare that he had killed Solitta, for it seemed to him at 
times that he would have a better chance of extricating 
himself by confessing a crime he had had nothing to do 
with than by asserting the truth. But when the green- 
ish, bilious face of his lawyer was no longer before him 
he began again to hope for the triumph of truth and 
justice. Moreover, his prison-mates assured him that 
juries were made up of honest people who had human 
hearts, and not hearts of stone like the magistrates. 

And then came the morning of his trial. Zio Chircu 
awoke almost gay; he had dreamed that he was in the 
forest, cutting wood near a river, and a marsh-bird, quite 
black, except for its claws, which were long and as 
green as the rushes, was hopping among the branches 
of a willow and singing the strangest song! 

The friend who used to sell his wood for him was one 
of the witnesses; he deposed that the prisoner had al- 
ways been a cunning, savage, unsociable fellow. 

The counsel for the prosecution depicted the prisoner 
as “a wild beast of the forest who had long and care- 
fully planned his crime in advance, and had watched 
for the passing of his victim; then, like some ferocious 
animal crouching in the jungle, he had leaped from his 
lair on his prey.” We give the words verbatim, for this 
is a true story. . 

Zio Barabbas, who was fairly paralyzed with terror, 
could not for some time take his eyes from this spec- 
tacled gentleman to whom he had never done any harm. 
To give himself a little courage, he made an effort, and 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 295 


at length succeeded in fixing them on the jury, which 
consisted of smug, peaceful-looking tradesmen with com- 
fortably protuberant stomachs; some of them had an 
air of jollity that was encouraging; the sight of them 
gave him a little hope. 

Then his counsel began his address in behalf of the 
prisoner. He was greener and more bilious looking than 
ever, and a habit he had of grinding his teeth during 
the more oratorical parts of his speech produced a very 
unpleasant effect. 7 

To bring the matter to a conclusion, the poor man was 
condemned to hard labor for life. He wept bitter tears. 
He looked once more appealingly at the members of the 
jury, these men that were so fat and peaceful and com- 
fortable; he recalled his dream, his blind confidence in 
the triumph of truth, and he told himself that every- 
thing that appears to be good is a lie. 

His lawyer thought to cheer him a little by drawing 
up an appeal to the Supreme Court and getting him to 
sign it, or rather to make his mark. But Zio Chircu 
no longer had any confidence, no longer believed in jus- 
tice, no longer had any hope. His heart shriveled up, 
became as dry and bitter as a wild plum. He stopped 
praying, stopped weeping. 

And now he was carried far away, and taken to the 
salt-pits; his hair and beard and moustache were shaved; 
he was dressed in red, and a chain was riveted to his 
ankles. For a long time he was in a state of despair. 
The sight of an immense sea sharpened the intense 
homesickness of the wretched man, accustomed as he 


296 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


was to dwell in places that were covered and had no 
horizon. 

But in the course of years he grew accustomed, and 
even resigned, to his new life. Sometimes, when he 
thought his old age would have been passed in the dark- 
est wretchedness, he experienced a sort of satisfaction 
in dwelling on the fact that now he need no longer be 
anxious about his future. 

He had become vicious also: he had lost the innocence 
that he had preserved up to the very day of his con- 
demnation. He no longer thought of God, or if he did 
think of Him, it was with anger, as of a monstrous being 
who had permitted the most infamous injustice to be 
wreaked on one of His creatures. 

Zio Barabbas formed a sort of friendship with one of. 
his companions in misfortune, a Sardinian also, a little 
old man who hardly reached to his elbow, with a red, 
chubby face and two keen, little, blue eyes, sunk far 
back under his bulging forehead. This old man came 
from the village next to that in which Zio Chircu was 
born, and his name was Zio Pretu. 

He was a jovial little manikin, was utterly without 
scruples, and a great braggart; but, after succeeding in 
persuading his fellow convicts that he had performed 
the most marvelous feats, he would burst out laughing, 
and acknowledge that his stories were all fibs, and he 
was only humbugging them. So when Zio Chircu was 
brought to the convict prison, there was no one there 
who gave any credit to the narratives of Zio Pretu. Yet, 
when Zio Pretu did tell the truth, he spoke so convinc- 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 297 


ingly, that it was hard not to believe him; but he did 
not tell the truth often, or to many persons. 

When Zio Pretu had won the entire confidence of Zio 
Chircu he related his history in a few words, and with 
a persuasive accent that carried conviction with it. 

“Listen. I am from the village, you know. I was 
living very comfortably with cows and hives and fields 
of corn and beans. But I wished to be still better off than 
I was. I knew a priest that was rich, so rich even that 
he possessed gold plate, and I and some of my comrades 
set out to rob him. As he made an outcry, we had to 
choke him, and he fell dead. And just when we had 
everything nicely fixed, the carbineers appeared. Pop! 
whiz! shots here, and shots there. We managed to es- 
cape, though, and with the booty, too, all except one, 
who unluckily remained in the hands of the soldiers; 
and he revealed our names, the coward! I was then 
forced to take to the woods; I managed to sell all that 
belonged to me, however, so that the authorities didn’t 
get hold of it; I put the money into a pitcher, and buried 
the pitcher. “I was just in time; a little later, I was 
arrested.” 

“And the booty?” asked Zio Chircu. “What did you 
do with it?” 

“Oh, I bought food with it when I was in hiding. But, 
to be frank with you, every mouthful I ate had a bitter 
taste. And what might your story be?” 

“Oh, mine is somewhat like yours,” the other returned, 
bitterly. “I also am here for robbing and murdering a 


298 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


man. Still, there is a difference. I have been accused 
of these crimes, but I never committed them.” 

“Ah, that is unjust. I assassinated my man beyond a 
doubt, and I don’t wish to gainsay it. And I have sin- 
cerely repented it, I can tell you, for it was the cause 
of my losing everything I owned.” 

“You have no family?” inquired Zio Chircu, tenta- 
tively, thinking of the pitcher. 

“To hell with my family! My relatives abandoned me 
like a dog; and they may die like dogs themselves, for 
all I care.” 

Then Zio Chircu and Zio Pretu formed a friendship 
that lasted for many years and afforded some little con- 
solation to these two unfortunates. They both wore the 
fetters of ignominy, they were fellow-countrymen, spoke 
often of the far-away land they came from, and what 
served to bind them closer, was that both were sure they 
would both die in the horrible spot—would die, not as 
men, but as mere numbers, lost in the blank desolation 
of these salt-pits lashed by the sea and by the sun. 

The character of Zio Chircu had completely changed. 
He had become surly and quarrelsome. At certain mo- 
ments, when he was in one of his darkest moods, he 
would insult his old comrade and come very near striking 
him. Then the little old man would laugh and say: 

“Number Three-fifty-one, don’t act the bully, or I 
won't tell you where I have hidden my pitcher.” 

“May the devil roast you! Who in hell cares for your- 
self or your pitcher? Even if you told me, what good 
would it do me?” 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 299 


“You’d at least have the satisfaction of knowing what 
I know.” 

“Go to blazes! I wish the devil would plug you into 
one of the salting-tubs! You’d better not provoke me 
further, Number Two-thirty-six.” 

When they called each other by their numbers, instead 
of by their names, it was the deadliest insult they could 
exchange. 

One day when Zio Chircu was in good humor he 
said to Zio Pretu: 

“Why don’t you write to someone? He would dig up 
the pitcher and send you some money. You would be 
able to live better, buy this and buy that for yourself.” 

“Not such a softy! He would keep the whole of it. 
I know the world better than you do.” 

“But, then’”— 

“But, then? I guess what you mean. Well, when I 
am at my last hour I will reveal the hiding-place to a beg- 
gar—he must be a beggar, for then there’ll be a chance 
that he’ll pray for my soul.” 

And weeks and months and years slipped by; the hair 
of Zio Chircu turned gray, his chest became hollow, and 
even his stature seemed to diminish. As for Zio Pretu, 
he was almost decrepit, but he did not look older than 
his comrade, and he kept on relating his mendacious 
stories and then laughing at them. If he continued to 
pour out these extravagant fibs with a fluency that never 
failed him, he did so to amuse himself rather than to 
amuse others. 

On a certain day an extraordinary incident occurred. 


300 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


Zio Chircu was summoned to the office of the director 
of the penitentiary. He was a little excited on his way, 
because nothing like this had ever happened to him be- 
fore. The director said to him: 

“Now that so many years have elapsed; now that you 
are an old man, you should at last confess the truth. Did 
you commit this crime—yes or no? Tell the truth, the 
whole truth. You will find it to your advantage. We 
will solicit your pardon, and you may be fortunate to 
be allowed to spend your last days in your country.” 

Zio Chircu again uttered a fierce and energetic denial. 

“No! though I should live as many years as there are 
grains of sand on the seashore, and spend the very last 
of them here, No! I have assassinated nobody. No, 
no, no!” 

He was then dismissed. He at once returned to Zio 
Pretu, who was awaiting his coming with some anxiety, 
and gave an angry account of his interview with the 
director. 

“It’s a wrong, a damnable wrong!” said the old man. 
“I assassinated the priest beyond a doubt, and I don’t 
wish to gainsay it. If I am summoned I will confess 
everything, and if they choose to pardon me, why, they 
will pardon me. But to torture a poor devil like you— 
ah, that isn’t just!” 

The next day Zio Chircu was again summoned to the 
director’s office and questioned for the second time. The 
blood surged to his head, and he was almost on the 
point of flinging himself on the director. 

“Well, since it is so,” said the director, changing his 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 301 


tone, “I may as well tell you the real murderer has been 
discovered—although I should not say ‘discovered.’ The 
truth is that he was overwhelmed with remorse and con- 
fessed his crime; but it comes to the same in the end. 
You have every reason to rejoice, then. You will make 
your preparations for leaving, for you will soon be free.” 


When he met Zio Pretu he broke into such a wild fit 
of weeping that the old man was astonished; these were 
the first tears he had ever seen him shed. 

“What is the matter?” 

“The real murderer has been discovered,” answered 
Zio Chircu, sobbing and repeating the words of the di- 
rector; “although he was not discovered exactly, he was 
overwhelmed with remorse and confessed his crime; but 
it comes to the same in the end. I am to make my 
preparations for leaving.” 

Then Zio Pretu began crying also, and they wept to- 
gether tears of mingled joy and sorrow. 

“But what will become of me?” asked Zio Pretu. 

“And what about me? What can I do?” asked Zio 
Chircu. “Liberty is fine, and it’s a good thing to have 
a good character, and I have got back mine. But I am 
old, I can no longer work, I can no longer earn my liv- 
ing; and I have no one belonging to me.” 

“Your neighbors will come to your help.” 

“But I should hate to live on alms.” 

And with a sad smile, in which there was a little 
irony: “Why,” he retorted, “why shouldn’t you tell me 
where you have hid the pitcher?” 

Zio Pretu’s countenance suddenly brightened. 


302 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


“And why not, really? You are not a beggar, but you 
are a poor man. Well, then, Ill tell you. And, in fact, 
I have been long thinking about it. But you will re- 
member me in your prayers?” 

“Ah, my prayers! my prayers! I don’t remember a 
single one of them!” exclaimed Zio Chircu, aghast. “I 
have forgotten God, and yet God has not forgotten me. 
He wished to try my faith, and I have lived like a 
heathen !” 

During his last day in the penitentiary Zio Pretu told 
his comrade where he had hidden the pitcher. The sep- 
aration was a great sorrow for Zio Pretu; but the old 
man found some comfort in thinking that, before dying, 
he had been able to do a service to a poor man on whom 
God had laid a very heavy hand. As for Zio Chircu, he 
went away feeling quite happy, for he had recovered 
his character, and his future was assured. 

When he returned home he found the villagers at first 
very generous, and he was able to live for a time on the 
alms they lavished on him. He was always thinking 
of the convict’s pitcher, but he could not as yet go in 
search of it, for he felt very feeble and incapable of 
making a long journey. Before he could hope to reach 
the spot indicated it was, absolutely necessary for him 
to recover his strength. 

Gradually his neighbors became accustomed to the 
sight of him, and the alms grew less abundant. After 
a time he was entirely neglected, and nobody paid any 
attention to him. 

“ ‘Then he saw it was time to make a quest for the con- 


AN INNOCENT BARABBAS 303 


vict’s treasure. His heart beat fast as he recognized on 
his journey the places where he had lived before his 
misfortune. Many of the woods were thinned, and some 
of them cleaned away entirely; but among the alders on 
the bank of the stream still vibrated the cheep, cheep 
of the marsh-birds; the slow, even note of the cuckoo 
still rang out from the mastic bushes; and those voices 
brought back to Barabbas endless memories of far-away 
ancient things. 

A strange melancholy oppressed him. He had a ter- 
rible mental picture of his wickedness. Ah, how vile he 
had become since that distant day of his affliction, and 
how sinful had been his despair of God’s mercy! Then 
he thought of his old comrade in the convict prison, and 
he asked himself whether Zio Pretu was not better than 
himself, this man who had committed a crime and was 
expiating it with resignation and by doing good to others. 
Ah, no, no, no, no, no! he would not find the pitcher! 
He did not deserve such luck, for he had sinned too 
deeply, had blasphemed and despaired. Then he re- 
pented of despairing still, prayed, and went on with more 
courage. 

Toward evening, he reached the place described by the 
convict. It was a copse of poplars, utterly lonely and 
far from any human habitation. Night was falling, crys- 
talline and unclouded, scintillant with its pure stars; 
the poplars rose to the heavens on their slender glossy 
trunks, like enormous silver flowers; the earth, softly 
carpeted with leaves, exhaled a humid, indefinite odor. 

Zio Barabbas had brought with him the iron of a small 


304 GRAZIA DELEDDA 


mattock; he drew it from under his blouse, and then 
groped along the ground in the darkness in search of 
something that might serve as a handle. At length, he 
found a branch which he was able to fit to the iron of 
the mattock. Then he waited for the rising of the moon. 

His heart beat as if it would burst through his breast; 
the whole remainder of his life was at stake now; he 
would be compelled to spend it in the most abject mis- 
ery, if God’s help failed him. He sat down on the grass 
and hid his face in his hands. 

Ah, how deeply he had sinned, how deeply he had 
sinned! But he repented bitterly. Surely God would be 
good to him! And at the same time he felt that, even if 
he did not find the pitcher, he should not complain. 

The moon rose; the damp leaves of the poplars gleamed 
like silver, the odor of the ground became more distinct. 

Zio Barabbas knelt down and began digging. In the 
profound silence of the solitude around him, he grew 
afraid of the sound—the only sound to be heard—he 
was making himself. 

At last the mattock struck a hard substance and gave 
forth a metallic sound. Zio Barabbas plunged into the 
hole, and felt the handle of the pitcher, then he con- 
tinued his work with furious ardor, and the pitcher was 
soon unearthed. He seized it, shook it. The coins in- 
side rattled and jingled. 

He made the sign of the cross, and, with his face 
turned up to the sky, thanked the Divine mercy. 

He resembled an old savage in an attitude of adora- 
tion before the moon. 


isl EE es na ; a= Glee —_— \ te alas Be 





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